Sherlock: In Between Seasons 2 & 3
by Maura Manette
Summary: New chapter every weekend. John and Sherlock's journey back to each other after some torturous time apart, Mycroft goes missing, and all of London seems involved in deciding the legitimacy of the controversial Sherlock Holmes. All will end with the fall.
1. Chapter 1: Pain

_Chapter One: Pain_

Pain. The pain radiated throughout his body, the epicenter seemingly his mid-left thigh. This constant throbbing, drawn out and persistent, was not a result of muscle atrophy. It seemed to come from within his bones, a black shadow infecting the morrow, turning his bones dry and brittle, seeping outwards into his muscles, his joints.

Intoxicating his blood, this ebony poison circulated around his body, settling around the interior of his mind, tainting the air in his lungs. It was pulsed into his heart, and the black shadow stayed there as well.

Taking the most crucial of his organs, stealing it and transforming from the inside out, this viral pain turned his heart black, completely shelling it of the volumes of feelings that had once resided there. The blackness purged the rest of his body as well, every sentiment he had ever felt deteriorated. He felt the depth of the emotions that once kept him comfortable as well as full. But now that they were no more, the only depth he felt was that of an empty body. The pain was acidic, and now the only feelings it had left him were endless leagues of nothing.

Not even the jet colored pain would take some of the space. It did not cling to the brittle, thin, crackling walls that separated his inner body from his skin, it was not suspended within him, a mass floating in his center, but it became like an airborne pathogen, breaking down to its simplest form and clinging to the molecules of the cold, damp air within him. It did, though, condense at one point - his mid-left thigh.

His upper leg throbbed with grief and longing. With every ounce of pressure on his leg the stiff, sharp black ice stabbed outward, racing downward, upwards, and to both sides instantly.

This pain contrasted the pain everywhere else in his body highly, besides the acute searing through his legs, he was almost thankful he could feel it. In comparison to the bleak, silent sea of endless torment inside of him, a ripping, screaming flash of agony reminded him that he was still capable of experiencing other feelings besides the airborne black pathogen.

But the brief lightning of agony was, in fact, brief. Inside his mind, he would then recover from this bright white agony and return to feeling barren. No thought crossed his mind, only images, basic, primitive feelings, and the consuming blackness.

_Images_. His brain recognized a possible thought, just a simple word interrupting the silence of his mind

_Images_. A flapping coat, the look on a person's face as they take a sharp, shocked, frightened inhalation of air. He frantically scrambled to stop the thought process, but more painful images flashed into his mind, whirling about overwhelmingly.

_Stop. STOP._

"John?" A weak voice beckoned. The images blipped out of his mind.

"Sorry, what was that Mrs. Hudson?" John answered.

"John, dear, are you feeling alright? You're pale as death." Mrs. Hudson replied.

Realizing what she had said, tears raced to brim at her eyelashes. "Oh, John I'm so sorry.

I did not mean it."

John looked at her, the word hung between them, the air became still and tense. _Death_. He looked at her intently, his grey and blue eyes boring into hers. She look pale as well, her nicely aged face had turned to white, cold marble, each wrinkle becoming a deep carving instead of a light line of age and wisdom. _Death._ That word stabbed both him and Mrs. Hudson. To him deep in an unknown part of his body, that had somehow remained pink and vulnerable, small as this area was.

He was familiar with death, the war had given his this familiarity, but the death of his comrades did not stir John as the death of Him seemed to. Words snuck into the barren tundra of his mind, his own words, '_You're a machine…'_, and another stab to his hidden spot of vulnerability. John composed himself to his formal, soldier, outwardly emotionless self.

"It's fine, really. How about I put on the kettle?"

John gripped his cane vigorously, pulling himself to his feet, and limped painfully to Mrs. Hudson's kitchen, which lay directly under his flat. _Our flat_, John thought remorsefully. In the silent kitchen, creaking footsteps could be heard upstairs.

_Footsteps. In Their flat._

A rush of emotions and questions flooded John. The funeral was only yesterday, he saw His glossy, jet black coffin that was made of ebony lowered into the ground. John stood at His grave, with Mrs. Hudson then alone, he stood in front of His gravestone, saying his farewell, pleading to Him: '_Give me one more miracle Sherlock… Please… Don't be dead.'_

John himself had not even slept in the flat that night.

_Who is up there?_


	2. Chapter 2: Unwanted Visitors

_Chapter 2: Unwanted Visitors_

It was the strangest sensation, a small, fragile flower of hope bloomed in his stomach. The light petals fluttered gently, making him feel uneasy and quite sick. Hobbling out of the kitchen, John swiftly exited Mrs. Hudson's flat, stumbling to the familiar stairs leading to his own.

John's tongue lay heavily in his mouth, as heavy and dry as clay. His heart was airy with panic, but his hands and feet leaden. Warm sunlight bathed his face while he laboriously climbed the dark wood stairs. One hand slid up the dry wooden handrail, the only feeling could be mimicked in his mind through the quiet sandy sound his skin made on the rail. John's other hand left his cane behind; instead he put pressure on the wall to support himself. Somewhere below, Mrs. Hudson called after him, shrilly, scolding him. John only heard "Fingerprints all over my walls!" and "...Not your housekeeper!" his mind set on whomever was in his apartment.

Behind the familiar and worn down door, John could hear muffled voices. Gripping his leg as if this would ease the pain, he shoved against it while turning the doorknob. John was consumed and driven by an unknown force, crazed to find out if his hearts longing had somehow materialized.

Anderson stared astounded at John, but a dumb and primitive look recovered his initial shocked expression. Anderson raised his eyebrows, his idiotic looking, and ridiculously stiff hair pushing back simultaneously. John maliciously wondered whether or not his mother still combs it for him.

"Moira, what the bloody hell are you doing in my flat?" John spat. He grinned stupidly, setting John's teeth on edge_._

_Anderson really does lower the IQ of the whole street, He was right._

John looked past Anderson, sullenly realizing it had been about a week since he last stood inside. A week since He had squatted in the short, sharp edged chair that He favored, uncomfortable as it appeared. Shouldering past the ever-gawking Anderson, he entered his home once again.

He was greeted by blank stares of what seemed to be the entire homicide department, all standing straight immediately when he entered, as if he had blown a whistle. Cameras, forensic kits, evidence bags, all were strewn about the room. Every familiar face gaped at his own, all but one. Molly Hooper evaded John's eyes the second he glanced at her; she fumbled to continue placing various body parts from the refrigerator in a cooler. Molly's face grew scarlet, her mouth stretching itself in a thin line, pin straight pony-tail flopping down over her face as she bent over to lift the frozen, severed head and add it to the collection of His 'research'. John did not find it curious, or notice at all, that none of his old flat-mate's collections were marked as evidence nor placed in evidence bags.

"Err… What's going on?" John said. Gaping mouths shut, and the visitors wildly looked amongst one another, hoping for someone to step forward. John grew hot and embarrassed, even though he was not intruding on someone else's home.

Home. The word felt empty now.

The chief detective inspector stepped forward, looking more haggard than John had ever seen him. His hands hung at his sides, tense. His eyes looked bloodshot. The dark bags underneath his them looked almost bruise like, and his eyelids lazily drooped, but never enough to give him the appearance of being sleepy. He looked sleep**less**, wrung up on caffeine and troubling thoughts. His face was creased with fresh frown lines, and any trace of his tan from his vacation those few weeks ago had been completely inverted.

"John… I tried to contact you but you weren't picking up on your cell," Lestrade started. John looked guiltily down at his phone. It had been turned off for days. As soon as His death hit the papers, he had been harassed endlessly by anyone who found his contact information. Apparently, finding such things is easier than John had anticipated. "Anyways, we've got a bit of a problem. I don't want to upset you or anything, but we're now investigating a possible murder/suicide." John's stomach knotted, he was suddenly aware that the investigators rustled about at an unusually high volume.

"What do you mean?" John implored. Lestrade glanced at his feet uncomfortably.

"Well… You know as well as I do that we had to investigate the crime scene. When we climbed up to St. Bart's roof, we found… err… well we found a decent amount of blood. No body. There really wasn't enough blood for this person to die instantly; we're getting the forensics analyzed right now so we can figure out what happened, how long this person would have lasted, and any other evidence that can help us out." Lestrade rushed to confess.

John suddenly wished he had not ditched his cane at the bottom of the stairwell, the ground under him seemed to silently rock. Visions of His body… _Sherlock's_ body, rushed to him. John could remember grabbing Sherlock's wrist, falling to the ground, staring at Sherlock's bloody face. His eyes were open, John remembered, the cool green/blue eyes would not quite meet his, they gazed off where John could not be.

What had those eyes hidden? Murder? The reason for his plummeting fall? A message, besides a teary 'Goodbye, John'? He could imagine any of these circumstances except murder. Not his flat-mate. He remembered Sergeant Sally Donovan's words to him… 'One day we'll all be standing around a body, and he'll be the one who put it there.' He looked up to see her staring at him intently, evidently the same conversation crossed her mind. She was probably thinking of the owner of the blood, but John thought of his best friend. He hoped with every ounce of passion in him that Sally dearly regretted saying that, because wasn't it His body that they had found? Had He not put it there? Unfortunately the idea either didn't occur to her, or didn't faze her. John bitterly turned his attention back to Lestrade.

"Do you think he did it? Tried to kill someone because of the rumors?" John murmured. _Do you think he was a fraud? _John thought hotly. _Do you honestly believe that every single case he has helped you on, he created?_ _Every criminal he put away was as real as you or me__… Or do we both believe what Sherlock said to me over the phone… that it was all fake… _

_No. Sherlock was genuine._

Something did not match up exactly in John's mind. Sherlock is, or was, the smartest man John had ever known. He wouldn't _try_ to kill someone, he didn't need to try. If Sherlock was out to kill, there would be no way this person would survive. Sherlock would never be out to kill anyone, though, no matter what Sally says.

Still the puzzle pieces were not fitting together nicely, at a time like this, John would ask his flat-mate for help, and surely he would have a logical answer within the limits of his flat-mate's maximum speed to talk. John reminded himself dolefully that this was no longer possible.

"John… there's something else you need to know." John could see Lestrade choosing his words cautiously. "Richard Brooks was sharing a flat with a reporter he had befriended, the one who he confessed to about Sherlock. He's been missing, John, ever since the day Sherlock died. It fits perfectly. It makes too much sense. We're running a blood test to see if we can match it to Brooks, but unfortunately chances are he won't be in the data base. Say Sherlock really was a fake?" John's eyebrows immediately knitted together in frustration "Wouldn't he want to go after the man who told his biggest secret? Take him down so nothing else could be found out, if there was anything else Sherlock was hiding? I'm not saying I believe it, honestly, I knew Sherlock pretty well too. But hypothetically, it would be the perfect motive."

"His name isn't Richard Brooks, its Jim Moriarty. And Sherlock" John hesitated slightly, choking on the name that had once slid off his tongue with ease "would never kill anyone. **You hear me, Donovan?**" John raised his voice as he caught her and Anderson eavesdropping "I've lived with him. I've dealt with him through some of the strangest situations, some of his best days, and some of his very worst. He's not a killer. He's no charlatan either. He is, one-hundred percent, the most talented man I have ever met. You can't fake what he has." John realized with a flush that he was talking of Sherlock in the present tense. He reminded himself that Sherlock was gone. "How do you know this isn't Moriarty plotting again? Ask Mycroft, he dealt with Jim when they had him locked up for days."

Lestrade scratched his head uncomfortably; the entire room seemed to turn their backs, scuttling out of John's view.

"I guess you haven't heard… It makes sense, probably because you haven't been reading the papers. Mycroft… well since Sherlock died… he's been having a horrible time. Drinking - a lot too. He's not showed up to work, he's barely shown up anywhere. I don't know if you noticed, but he wasn't at the funeral. Odd, really. Even if his brother disgraced his name, I couldn't imagine Mycroft missing the funeral. Sherlock was the only family he had left. Their parents… tragic, really just awful."

John gazed at Lestrade curiously. "Where's he been the past few days?"

"The past two, no one has had a single word. Not even those girls working for him have a clue as to where he's been off to." Lestrade grimaced. John's stomach twisted and contracted, knotting itself tightly. In the few encounters he has had with Mycroft, John had retained the impression that business always quells his emotional problems. Only Sherlock could ever bring him out of his stolidity, and even then only with boyish bickering. Mycroft wouldn't even leave without a notice, a pompously written note or email sent individually to anyone who would be concerned; even a text. Moriarty and Mycroft's disappearances continued to knot themselves in his stomach and knag at his conscious.

That's… out of character…" John murmured.

"No kidding." Lestrade replied. "Just more to add on our plate… even though Mycroft's disappearance is not our division, I think it's best that we keep our eyes peeled."

"Hm." John said absentmindedly, nodding his head in agreement. "You know what… I better be off. Let me know when you're finished here and everyone's out."

John limped out the doorway, fully aware that Molly Hooper's eyes were boring into the back of his head, wide and full of knowledge. He did not show any sign as to why he suddenly needed to leave the apartment whatsoever. John made his way down the stairs, snatching up his cane, and exited without one word to the protesting Mrs. Hudson. As he shut the door to 221B Baker street, John noticed two homeless men, their eyes also boring into him as Molly's had. It unnerved him slightly, the homeless hardly ever went outside 221B, but he shrugged it off and walked away, with a vigorous grip on his heavily used metal cane.


	3. Chapter 3: Masters of Disguise

_Chapter Three: Masters of Disguise_

He seemed to pace endlessly.

Sometimes, he slowly placed one foot in front of the other, as if he were deep in thought. Each step would meticulously emphasize a heel-to-toe pattern. Other times, he would vigorously pivot, pacing with an extreme purpose. His cold turquoise eyes were always burning with a cold, ferocious fire, black curls bouncing slightly on his head. Even when he wasn't pacing, his hands always tremor violently, his feet dancing the jig of a madman.

A madman like himself should never be enclosed in a small facility for as long as he had been. His brain sent electric pulses, jumping from neuron to neuron, at an unusually high pace. This left him feeling as if each nerve in his body was alive and buzzing anxiously. He had not slept for months, he never ate, but worst of all he hardly uttered a sound. He was a ticking bomb, and Irene knew it.

Irene had adjusted well to welcoming Sherlock into her home. Most people would become frazzled the second day, and by the end of the week they would become completely irritable and grouchy. Miss Adler had lasted an outstanding eight months without any serious complications. No police investigations, no high profile criminals invading, even the assorted body parts did not decay.

Like Irene's iron will, the conditions of the varying digits, limbs, and unidentifiable portions of the body were not affected by the atmosphere. Irene had thus far managed to quell any of Sherlock's tantrums, his anxiety, his nicotine addiction, even his absolute boredom. His chaotic and destructive behavior would forever leave a tense and horrible atmosphere in the house, but her character never deteriorated because of it. In Irene's house, a dead man would always be cared for regardless of his mental state.

The only thing that ever wore her down was the Lab Rat.

The Lab Rat stopped in frequently to check on her precious Sherlock, too frequently. Irene found her shyness and awe of Sherlock amusing at first, but irritating none the less. Her name is Molly Hooper, Irene recalled, and she was the one who helped Sherlock fake his death. She brought Sherlock all his collections from 221B; the body parts, the lab equipment, but no books. Those, Sherlock assured Molly, could always be found in his head. After the first month, Irene was finished with the Lab Rat's visits, hoping she'd realize that Sherlock was as settled as he could possibly be, and no amount of lipstick could help him be comfortable.

None the less, Irene Adler continued to aid Sherlock to her fullest ability through this tense waiting period.

Sherlock needed space. The walls of Irene's small countryside house were caving on him. He had deduced every inch of the house, of Irene, of _everything_, and his mind screamed for more.

He needed more.

More liberties

More air

And a case!

Sherlock stormed to Irene's grand kitchen, grabbed the saucer she was using for her tea, and blatantly threw it against the wall. Irene raised her eyebrows, amused rather than startled.

"_Let. Me. OUT._"

His ferocity did not faze her in the slightest. Irene lazily turned her head towards him, finally acknowledging that there was a potentially dangerous man standing right in front of her.

She mumbled slightly when she replied, not having put in the effort to take her chin off her delicate palm, elegant fingers drumming against her jaw. "Sherlock Holmes. Do you not remember when we made our agreement? You are not to be released from me… I have full power to do _anything_ to keep you in here for your extended vacation. You, Mr. Holmes, are _mine._ You may go outside, but I'll be watching you… not too far from the house, understood?"

"Please, try to leave my good china in its current state on your way out, won't you?"

Sherlock scowled bitterly at her. She had always liked to play the alpha, though this is a simple deduction considering her career choice. But treating him like a child? She was full heartedly enjoying herself. Sherlock's eyes seemed to burn brighter than ever, the retorts feeding his flame. Lamely, he turned on his heel and practically flew out of the door, slamming it so hard behind him that all the windows shuddered throughout the entire house.

Sherlock had not considered exactly how ridiculous he looked, standing in his normal pants, a white shirt, and his blue bathrobe. This did not matter, of course, because he was safely tucked away in the heart of the English countryside, where few knew he resided.

Sherlock grabbed a stone and hurled it at what appeared to be nowhere in particular. But not to cunning Irene, who watched from the second story bedroom. She smirked and walked away from the curtain.

Sherlock knew Irene had a general idea of what he was up to, and knew she would keep quiet.

Irene knew what Sherlock was doing, but did not interfere.

This silent agreement had abled him to be distracted enough to not march straight to Baker street, burst through the door, and holler 'I'm home!' to his dearest, most unfortunate flat-mate. But, then again, John himself had not been in 221B for eight months either; Sherlock did not need his spies inform him of this. Not even John, Sherlock's brave veteran, could face the high emotions of staying in 221B. The disbelief, the denial, the self-doubt, the memories would be haunting every inch of their home.

As the stone landed in the distance, a nearby bush quivered slightly. Even if anyone had been watching, there was absolutely nothing suspicious about the leaves of the bush dancing like so. It would actually be expected, considering bulging thunderclouds threatened to release a torrent of pounding rain – leaves always shook before a storm's eruption.

The clouds had been a constant omen for months, sometimes releasing a downpour of rain, sometimes simply staying in the sky as a constant threat; a reminder. Even as they released steady flows on occasion, one could tell it was not exactly the full storm that was brewing. One could only wait for the skies to break open to rumble and shake their delicate home.

The bush rustled again, a confirmation to Sherlock. He strode over, half his mouth lifting involuntarily. As discreetly as possible, he bent down and gazed anxiously into the brown eyes of a small, dirty face.

The owner of this face was covered in a layer of dirt and grime. He wore shabby clothing, little holes and tears over every inch of fabric, on each of the many layers. The man was stout, broad, slightly red in the face, and missing a few teeth. He looked back at Sherlock bravely, especially for the news he was bringing.

He spoke. "Sherlock… good tah see ya. I've just been runnin' afer yer friend, Jawn, ann' I gots sum bad news fer ya."

"Go on." Sherlock replied.

"Well, yer friend went teh 'is therapist, ya see, ann' there weres a 'ole lotta screamin' goin' on. It star'ed off about the normal stuff. Howwas that make yer feel, the 'ole lot of it. 'N then, Mr. Jawn-"

"-Doctor, Doctor John"

"Erm.. yeah, yeah, Doc'er Jawn star'ed talkin' about the other Mr. Holmes. Yer brother." The man paused, trying to see any sort of reaction in Sherlock's face. There was none. "Ann' I heard 'im sayin' tat Mr. Holmes has been gone the entire time youse been gone. They say he jus' up and disappeared. Tat's what happened. Anyhows, Mr. – I meanen Doctor – Jawn… well the therapist went ann' brought yeh up agin, Sherlock. Ann'… Ann' Dr. Jawn dinnit hold back this time round. Dr. Jawn went ann' screamed inner face, tat's what. She wus tellin' 'im tat you isn't real, agin, but this time 'e wasn't gonna hear it no more."

"This time 'e told 'er, 'you are WRONG.'" The man's voice boomed. "'Sherlock Holmes is REAL. There is NO SUCH THING AS RICHARD BROOKS. YOU CANNOT TELL ME OTHERWISE, YOU DON'T KNOW SHERLOCK. YOU DIDN'T SEE HIM, LIVE WITH HIM, WATCH HIM SOLVE CASES. THERE IS NO – and I mean NO – POSSIBLE WAY HE COULD BE A FRAUD.' 'N the lady got right quiet, I could hardly 'ear notin', ann' she right out told 'im tat Dr. Jawn wus insane. She said right innis face, 'You need to calm yourself, Doctor. I'm afraid you're suffering a bit of insanity.'. Don't the therapists' have a differen' word fer it though?" The dirty man questioned the brilliant man.

"Yes… yes there is." Sherlock muttered under his breath. The toothless spy watched Sherlock as he stared at the ground, eyes flickering back and forth as if he was rapidly reading a long text in the dirt. He suddenly looked up, coming to a conclusion from his brief deduction, and urged the spy onwards. "That's it?"

"No sir. Then Jawn stood righ' up, and walked righ' outta there. The therapist was ascreamin' af'er 'im, 'SHERLOCK IS DEAD' 'n stuff like tat." The grimy man finished. "Ann' this is from the man tryinna find yer brother." He said, handing Sherlock a note.

It read:

_Sherlock,_

_I have done as you instructed, and have been searching thoroughly for your brother. He is nowhere to be found. Not a soul has heard from him for months, not his most trusted consults, not even a suspicious car outside your flat, waiting for John. Lestrade and company have been searching as well, more for your and John's sake than that of the government._

_Also important news: John may have convinced Lestrade to (finally) run the DNA from the St. Bart's roof against the entire criminal database, not just the DNA they got from Richard Brook's old roommate, which was most likely planted. This could be what will end John's ridicule and the defacing of your grave; given Moriarty's actual DNA is in the system. Who knows what he could have done to avoid that._

_Speaking of defacing and vandalism, there has been a large amount of graffiti wars over you. Your grave, as I said before, has been destroyed multiple times in retaliation to a common slogan on buildings and in the alleys of London, 'I Believe in Sherlock Holmes' and 'Moriarty was REAL'. It's all interesting enough and it might even be amusing if you didn't know how much it's torturing dear Mrs. Hudson and John._

_Just another little note: John is having a horrible time with this. It needs to end soon._

_-Will update again soon_

Sherlock folded the paper, his brow furrowed over his eyes as he placed the letter in his pocket.

"Thank you." He said to his loyal spy of the homeless network, one of many. Sherlock slipped him some money and strode back into Irene's house, the cool tiles and high ceilings matched his cold fear of what could be going on in London. The only things on his mind for the entire time he had passed under Irene's command were of returning to John and 221B, Mycroft's highly out of character absence, and Moriarty.

How could Moriarty have survived? Sherlock distinctly recalled the sun glaring off the metal gun, Moriarty's eyes widening in excitement as he slid the barrel into his mouth, angling it to the base of his skull, where his spine met his cerebellum. A perfect shot, instant death. The only fault in this logic was that Sherlock instinctively jumped backwards, eyes slamming shut and hands flying over his ears to protect him from the awful blast of the gun. Sherlock had only heard the shot, he had not seen it.

Could Moriarty have pulled it off? Could he have possibly faked a gunshot wound to the head? The blood? The lack of a pulse?

Sherlock ran through possible scenarios as he walked into Irene's room, where she sat waiting for him.

"You want to go to London." She stated, not questioned. He only nodded in response. "Alright… I'm sure we can figure out disguises for both of us… after all, we are masters of deception, am I right?"

Sherlock looked at her sharply, surprised by her choice of words.


	4. Chapter 4: The Therapist

_Chapter Four: The Therapist_

Time had, at first, moved achingly slow. John drifted through each day, each second dragging on painfully. Eventually, though, the pain became a dull, slow, and steady ache.

Some days started to pass him quickly, some he only noticed as slight whispers to his empty mind, others as a screeching crash in between both his ears. In total, nothing of significance had happened; it was just the expected day-to-day struggles that brought him down.

John was amidst the raging sea of a war on the legitimacy of Sherlock Holmes. Had he ever ventured back into 221B after his departure all those months before, John was sure he could find flyers, graffiti, thrown eggs, toilet paper, and vulgar language decorating the exterior. He would enter the flat and find a few bricks, some broken windows, and a flustered landlady who would curse the hooligans that were destroying the property. At least, this is how John imagined 221B. In his mind, aside from the minor chaos of the vandalism, every aspect of his home remained as it always has been.

As if being stuck in this violent tempest of the 'Sherlock War' (as tabloids call it) wasn't enough, John felt as if he had cinder blocks tied to his ankles. He was sinking deeper and deeper into the icy, churning water. He hardly had any friends to help him, with the exception of Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. There was only so much company he wanted from an older woman though, and Lestrade was always very busy trying to solve new cases.

Since Lestrade's boss discovered Sherlock had taken part in over thirty cases, he had been nearly fired and now has been put under the gun. Lestrade could never crack the difficult serial criminals as quickly as Sherlock; he was floundering without the consulting detective's advice. Not only was Lestrade spending all hours of the day working on his cases, but he had begun to doubt Sherlock, too. John wasn't sure whether it's Sally and Anderson's constant company that fertilized the seed, that they themselves had planted the night of Sherlock's arrest, or if it was general disbelief.

There was no comfort to be found, even in Molly Hooper. To see her face, John had to practically chase her down and grab her by the arm. Still, she never looked directly in his eyes. Molly was always around somehow, asking others how John had been, what he'd been up to as of late, but never asking him directly unless John confronted her first. The whole situation baffled him completely. John hoped with all his heart that Molly wasn't blaming herself for Sherlock's death, or even blaming him.

John had blamed himself – at first. He went to his former therapist immediately after finding all of Lestrade's team digging through his flat; it wasn't even a conscious decision to go back there. It was like resuming an old routine, picking up right where he left off eighteen months before moving in at Baker Street. He resumed his normal position, one leg crossed over the other, back against the too-comfy cream colored chair, one hand gripping his cane to give him a sense of sturdy support. The therapists' office was still the same. Large windows along the back wall, waxed wood floors, a carefully constructed interior to give the patient a feeling of comfort and relaxation. As the months of therapy went by, John felt more and more that it was not a relaxing feeling but a gauzy cover to his true emotions.

When his therapist first asked him to openly say that Sherlock was dead, John choked on the words. Forming the dreaded sentence in his mind was heartbreaking enough, but as the sentence moved up his throat it swelled and clung there until he forced himself to say it. This was denial, having a hard time admitting his death, she told John. She promised to help him through the denial.

Over the weeks, the therapist began to dig deeper into him, asking more questions that he had difficulty answering. At last, she asked whether or not John believes Sherlock was an actual detective.

"It's consulting detective… and I know he was real." He said honestly. She stared at him with her empty, black eyes, and asked him to reconsider his position on the situation. John slumped backwards into the chair he was growing to despise and stared back at her, bewildered.

"Are you… You're not… You aren't serious, are you?" He asked her. She stared back coldly, not even blinking in reply. "Right… yeah… ok, well I'll be off then. You're absurd." He thrust himself to a standing position with the help of his weathered cane and rushed from the room. John could feel the anger starting to boil inside of him. It was thick and bubbling, red and rising behind his eyes. Leaving the therapists office, he kicked a chair out of absolute frustration.

About a week later, the therapist called to apologize, asking him to try another session. Generously, he agreed.

This time around, the therapist focused mainly on his leg. She was overly cautious when choosing the directions of the sessions as more weeks passed, and his psychological pain began to be a saftey net for both parties. John was in between a rock and a hard place; he knew that his therapist did not believe in Sherlock, but he needed her support and help.

John had isolated himself from nearly everyone he would have once gone to for help. Some involuntarily, as in Molly and Mycroft, but the rest voluntarily. He admitted to himself that if Mycroft hadn't fallen from the face of the earth, John would seldom talk to him anyways. It was Mycroft who had given Moriarty Sherlock's life story, selling his brother away because Moriarty had too much knowledge of the inner workings of the government, and a specific computer code. But then again, John had to acknowledge that Mycroft's the only living relative of Sherlock's, which had somehow made his disappearance much more suspicious. John could do nothing but hope that Mycroft was still alive, somewhere.

After six months of relative calmness, the therapist brought the controversy of Sherlock Holmes back to light. John was in no mood to hear her opinion. For six months, they had worked around the topic while helping him recover. There were no discrepancies or arguments.

"So John… I think it's about time we bring a forgotten subject back. When we first started meeting again, you and I had a disagreement. I think your judgment has been clouded by your grieving of Sherlock, as we both know you two were very close. But, I'm trying to convince you to be open to the possibility that maybe the rumors are true. The evidence backs up the case completely, and it's perfectly ok for you not to want to see that. But at this point, we're going to start trying to move forward faster." She said mildly.

John became agitated. "Honestly… you can't believe everything that's in the papers. You said it yourself, they're _rumors_. Rumors, most of the time, aren't true. If you had lived with someone like Sherlock and worked with him as I did, you wouldn't have a doubt in your mind that he is true. No one could fake his brains and talent. _No one._"

The therapist looked stonily back at John; her eyes seemed to be an empty, black and bottomless pit. John always noticed how similar they were to black holes. She answered him, "I actually have a patient who had worked with Sherlock on many cases for a few years, fell in love with him even. She was in a similar position as you – she wouldn't accept the truth. He hurt her though, he publically humiliated her multiple times until she couldn't take it and began to hate him. Not too long after, he killed himself out of shame because of his fake –"

"DO NOT SPEAK OF SHERLOCK THAT WAY!" John roared, jumping to his feet with the ease and agility of having no leg injuries. "DON'T YOU DARE. HE WAS MY FRIEND, AND HE WAS A GREAT MAN. HE-WAS-NOT-A-FRAUD."

The therapist looked coolly at him in return, a smirk of satisfaction threatened to break loose from her twitching lip. "Sit down, John. Do you know Sally Donovan?" His jaw fell in astonishment and John let himself slump back into the chair. "I thought so. Well dear Sally was so torn over Sherlock's death that she came here to me, and I've helped her out quite a bit. And apparently, I've helped you as well… leg not bugging you right now? Good. We will continue as scheduled. I think that will be all, Dr. Watson. Thank you and goodbye."

John was so astonished that he could only nod in agreement. In a daze, he exited the office and returned to his dingy, cramped flat that he had been living in for six months now. He was not sure whether the therapist had actually meant that Sherlock was a fraud or had said it based on reaction. He spent the rest of the night trying to process the new information that the therapist had told him about Sally. Somewhere, nagging at the back of his mind, John knew that therapists could not disclose any information on other patients to anyone. He knew, deep in the back corner of his thoughts that no respectable, professional therapist would tell him about Sally.

Later that night, the not-so-honest therapist went out with some close friends, including Miss Sally Donovan. They were going out for some good, quality bonding, some armed with their trusty spray cans and hammers, some with bricks, and others with eggs and toilet paper. Sally always hung in the back on these outings; she was the only one who did not carry any tools of this trade. Sally was uncomfortable to be out with the group to begin with and never participated in the activities. She turned a blind eye as she heard windows shatter on her old love's street, she walked away as eggs splattered against doors and toilet paper was tossed in the air like confetti. But most importantly, she left completely when the others went to his grave. They had no dignity, they were the most radical of any of those opposing his legitimacy, and they would decorate the grave to their liking. First, the hammers worked to ruin the black stone, and then the spray cans decorated it with vulgar slang and language. It was a war, between the believers and non-believers, and the non-believers were playing dirty.

John continued to see his therapist for two more months, as each session went by, Sherlock's controversy was brought up more and more frequently. Finally, eight months after beginning, his therapist snapped at him.

"How can you completely ignore that this man was a good for nothing fake? He just wanted fame and attention! You need to get this through your head at some point, John. Do you understand? This man was vulgar and had probably murdered Richard Brooks, Sally told me herself. Right before he killed himself like the coward he was, he killed the man who ruined his identity! He is fake."

"Sherlock Holmes is REAL. There is NO SUCH THING AS RICHARD BROOKS. YOU CANNOT TELL ME OTHERWISE, YOU DON'T KNOW SHERLOCK. YOU DIDN'T SEE HIM, LIVE WITH HIM, WATCH HIM SOLVE CASES. THERE IS NO – and I mean NO – POSSIBLE WAY HE COULD BE A FRAUD."

"You need to calm yourself, Doctor. I'm afraid you're suffering a bit of insanity."

John presently rose and walked out, limp-less, using his cane to tip a vase on his way out. The therapist screamed after him.

"SHERLOCK IS DEAD. HE WAS HARDLY LIVING, ONLY ACTING. HE IS DEAD AND GONE – SIX FEET UNDER, WHERE HE SHOULD BE. HE IS REPELLING."

Mycroft stared at his bare feet. His ankles were bound to the wooden chair he was restricted to. One toe was missing, and the bottoms of his feet were severely burned and infected. His left eye had been swollen shut for days now; he could only hope it would start to heal soon. Mycroft's tongue was soaked with his blood, but before his teeth started getting pulled it had laid dry and shriveled in his mouth. He had managed to avoid this fate for many months, floating from quiet location to quiet location around the world, leaving no trace. It was not until a week ago that he had been caught and kidnapped. As Mycroft drifted out of consciousness, his torturers' face emerged from the shadows.

"Don't faint now… we still have some things to discuss, Mycroft." Moriarty hissed in Mycroft's ear. This threat was not enough to keep the elder Holmes brother from slumping forward against his restraints as he slipped from consciousness.


	5. Chapter 5: Time for Action

_Chapter Five: Time for Action_

John carefully sat down in front one of Lestrade's office chairs. Idly poised at the edge of his seat, his anxiety intoxicated the air. John wasn't sure whether or not Lestrade realized who he had permitted into his office, the investigating detective did not once glance up when he asked in his distinctive and sheepish manner 'Err… May I come in?'. For a moment John had stood awkwardly at the door, he had already knocked twice, until Lestrade answered with a distant 'yeah, grab a seat'. He had not dared to even shake his head yes or no, not wanting to lose his spot on the page he was reading, which John could only identify as very fine print from his chair.

Lestrade ruffled his hair, exhaling exasperatedly, pen still in his hand as he seemed to be rousing his brain. Finally, the Investigating Detective looked up, wide eyed and surprised. "John! Good to see you! How have you been?" This answered John's question. He even went so far to make a miniature deduction, deciding that Lestrade had become so overwhelmed and consumed by his work he would only expect Donovan or Anderson entering for a question related to a case. Nothing similar to John's purpose here in the office.

Lestrade paused and took in John's appearance for a moment. Rigid back, cane clutched in one hand, the other with fingers tensely drumming on his knee. John looked like he was ready to jump and leave at a moment's notice, positioned just close enough to the edge of his seat to give Lestrade the final lasting impression that he was not interested in small talk today.

"Anything the matter?" Lestrade asked hesitantly.

"Greg… This is very important. Tell me honestly… do you really not believe Sherlock was real?" This was one of the few times John would say Sherlock's name, to him it was almost a taboo. An awkward pause ensued.

"John, you have to understand the position I'm in right now…" Lestrade glanced down at his clustered desk. Without a word, John rose, took Lestrade's phone, and after a second or two returned it with a video playing. Lestrade curiously looked to see what John was showing him.

It was not a video from the internet; it was one Lestrade had taken himself not too long ago. Lestrade silently watched Sherlock Holmes falling over himself, drugged by Irene Adler. John watched Lestrade's face as Lestrade watched a John from the past support Sherlock, despite the substantial height difference, and move him into his bedroom. Lestrade heard his own laughter come from the phone, light and merry. Sherlock was stumbling over himself, flailing around like a fish on land. After Sherlock flipped off the bed, Lestrade put the phone down.

John spoke. "You cannot tell me that that was all faked. For god's sake, the man fell flat on his nose after flipping out of the bed. That was absolutely genuine."

Lestrade was at all loss for words. Deep inside, he knew Sherlock had never been a charlatan. When Donovan and Anderson confronted him before the fall and he had to question Sherlock, he didn't want to. It was standard procedure, he even called in advance, to give Sherlock and John a warning at least. But investigating Sherlock was not something out of the ordinary at all. Sally and Anderson always came rushing to him, always with a new way to incarcerate the great consulting detective. Then they all venture over to go drag Sherlock back with them, question him, and release him after a headache of an interview.

At least, that is normal procedure. The fact that John had punched Lestrade's superior and gotten himself arrested, Sherlock holding John hostage after assaulting the entire squad and stealing an officer's gun, or the pair running off and leaving another body – one of their neighbors – in the duo's wake did not make this particular situation any better than the previous times. Lestrade wished that it had gone differently, that John was not so loyally protective and had just gotten a lift back to the station with Lestrade, maybe even in Sherlock's police car. It could have been their normal questioning, bantering, and Sherlock outsmarting-and-hurting-many-egos sort of event.

Surely Sherlock would have had a perfect explanation as to why the little girl went mad as soon as she saw his face. He could have explained all this in the questioning as well as had the satisfaction of proving Donovan and Anderson wrong. But the fact that Sherlock not only fled, but killed himself and Moriarty/Richard Brooks, all because the actor/Moriarty came out that he staged every case clouded Lestrade's sense of right and wrong. The matter was constantly an inner battle. Lestrade truly wanted to believe that Sherlock never faked a thing, he couldn't see how any man would be able to, but there was always the overwhelming evidence against Sherlock that fought back – just never quite as strongly.

All this must have shown in Lestrade's eyes, because John slumped backwards, more relaxed.

"You do think he was real."

Lestrade nodded, but responded with the matter both the weary men had on their minds. "But where is Moriarty, and where is Mycroft?

"I have an idea… please tell me if I'm being ridiculous…" John started

"You think Moriarty has Mycroft." It was a plain statement, not a question. John's eyes flashed up to analyze Lestrade's reaction, just in case he had missed a note of disappointment, anger, sarcasm, or even defeat.

Instead, Lestrade seemed to have been thinking the same thing all along. "Well… I guess now is the best time to step up our game, and you can provide exceptional help if we're going to try and pick up looking for him. I have to admit, I had given up hope, almost had the case ripped from my hands too."

John raised his eyebrows inquisitively.

"I had to defend myself that it was actually the case of the missing Richard Brooks, not Mycroft Holmes, and had a little trouble convincing my boss. In the end, he only agreed because he knows it's more work to add to my pile." Lestrade added the last sentence a bit maliciously.

"Well, maybe I can help you out." John proposed.

Sherlock could not help but let a smile lift half his lips. John. John Watson. _His_ John. Every report Sherlock had received over the past months had only bad news to bear '_This isn't good for John… he is struggling… he needs to know…'_ over and over. Sherlock watched his companion from the darkened window across the road through binoculars, and he saw resiliency. John did not look nearly as haggard as Lestrade, not quite as sleep deprived as Sally, nor as anxious as Molly. John looked strong, not robust, but worn and beaten down - a soldier. Irene clicked her tongue anxiously behind him.

"We can't stay here forever, you know." She said irritably.

Sherlock ignored her. His mind buzzed as he watched John and Lestrade exchange a tense conversation, a phone passed between the two with grim expressions on each other's faces, then signs of relief. Sherlock did not have any reason to consider what they were up to, he knew they agreed to search for his brother just as he and Irene had. Impatiently, Irene tapped her heel on the filing cabinet she was sitting on.

"You're anxious." Sherlock pointed out. "It doesn't have anything to do with the blood red rhododendrons waiting for you to see in your entry-way, did it? Because they seemed to have matched your shade of lipstick from our first encounter perfectly, if I do recall."

Irene only inhaled deeply, a meditation exercise she had begun using when she became exceptionally overwhelmed, which only happened if Molly stopped by for a surprise visit in the midst of one of his fits of boredom. "I can do that too. Your deductions have been off for months, you need John by your side to perform at your very best. And, besides that, you're very emotionally attached to him. He's more to you than just a partner-in-crime; you've showed emotion because of him." Sherlock flicked his eyes over to her briefly before looking back through his binoculars, enraged at himself for his reaction. "You cried on St. Bart's that fine day. One of your homeless friends that helped you told me. You're just as disoriented by this whole situation as John is."

"Angry now, are you?" Sherlock turned in time to see her eyes flash malevolently at him. "You never answered my question. Why are you so affected by these flowers, and why were you so eager to take me here to London after you saw them?" It was true, upon re-entering Irene's home; Sherlock noticed the slaughterous red flowers the moment he entered, almost as if they were straight from the book _Rebecca_, where the flowers resembled the dead-but-still-revenge-seeking former wife of the narrators new husband. Sherlock's mind flew immediately towards Moriarty, who, even through the clouding smell of chlorine, hinted of rhododendrons. Within a fraction of a second, Sherlock was moving to grab Irene by both her arms.

He jerked her back and forth; she was taken aback by his sudden change in tone. From speaking coolly and indifferently, she now heard him speak frantically. "Tell me all you know about Jim Moriarty. What is he to you?"

Eyes wide, Irene spoke quietly back. "We were involved, once. Years and years ago. He has been sending the awful plants to me, but I changed address when I took you in, he must be just finding me again."

Sherlock knew at once she was not telling him the full truth. He also knew this was all that he would be able to get from her, because she was frightened. Under his tight grip on her arms, he felt her tremor slightly, saw the frantic flickering of her eyes back and forth between his, eyelids pulling back involuntarily only the slightest bit. Sherlock knew he needed to start acting quickly.

"We can't go back to the house, to start. Moriarty is alive and active, most likely holding Mycroft for information on John or me, considering he already has enough on you." She caught her eyes from casting downward, but not quickly enough for the great detective. Moriarty has more than information on Irene. "He may be luring John into a trap, so we need to keep ahead of John and Lestrade when they start investigating. Knowing Molly, she did not make any false records for the things she got for me from 221B, and Moriarty would have discovered this. He knows I'm alive, but he needs bait for me."

Irene finally cuts in. "He already does. He has your brother, and soon he'll have Lestrade and John. The only person missing is Mrs. Hudson."

"Which is why we get to Moriarty before anyone else."

221B Baker Street was a wreck. Mrs. Hudson had not cleaned it, but that was not what made the conditions so poor. As John anticipated, bricks littered the floor with papers attached to them. This was only the area by the window. The entire flat was destroyed, though, in the fit of a madman.

It's a wonder he was not heard, when he entered so long ago in search of proof that Sherlock was dead. Instead, Moriarty only found the opposite. After double checking with the records of the crime scene, Moriarty correctly confirmed that Sherlock was alive. Any item not taken from the apartment from Molly, John, or the police squad was absolutely ripped to bits and strewn around the area. Moriarty was enraged, which is when he had begun his work on Mycroft Holmes.

Now Mycroft sits, more bloody, bruised, and broken than before. Punishment, Moriarty calls it. Whether it was punishment for back talking, not cooperating, or punishment for not being able to speak at times, Moriarty could justify it.

In Mycroft, Moriarty could see his little brother through his eyes. Both had identical eyes, icy blue which burned bright and passionately behind a cool, placid face. Behind these eyes, Moriarty could not see how consumed by anxiety Mycroft felt because of Sherlock.

He did not want to believe Sherlock was alive, only to spare him the horrible fate Moriarty was spinning behind his own wild eyes. If what Moriarty was doing to Mycroft was bad, Sherlock would only endure agony and pain enough to kill him alone, without any torture.

Even though Mycroft was never close to his little brother, not even as close as John, he still wanted to protect him from the madman who struck him out of consciousness again with a blow to his temple.


	6. Chapter 6: A Disturbance on Baker Street

_Chapter Six: A Disturbance on Baker Street_

John wandered back to his cramped apartment lazily, turning down random streets and alleys so that he could enjoy the not-very-fresh air of London. He felt pleased, relieved that Lestrade at least was on his side. John let his mind wander as his feet did, remembering the first case he and Sherlock worked together

Sherlock would know exactly where in the city John was, the exact distance from any given location, the longest and shortest route to wherever his heart desired. He would point out someone off the street, probably, and tell John their life story. John would ask a few questions as Sherlock gave the people they would see together some depth, and by answering these questions Sherlock would raise one of his thick eyebrows, let his mouth tilt into a slight smile, and paint the crowds with even more colors, giving them lives and meaning.

John didn't realize his key role in Sherlock. His innocent questions sparked a new thought in Sherlock's fathomless brain, and though Sherlock never said it aloud, he smiled at John's unrecognized intelligence. Together, as a team, they were a whole.

Until John emerged from his memory to cross the street, he hadn't realized where his legs had carried him. Indeed, he did let his feet wander as his mind did, and he was approaching the familiar black door on Baker Street. A darkly hooded man, dirty and ragged from an apparent life on the streets, briskly sped away; his long legs carried his tall, thin body away from 221B before John could see a pair of his hidden, familiar, and blazing blue/green eyes.

Head down, the man walked straight through a small mass of people. The group gave off an uncomfortable feeling, traveling in close formation, hands either in their pockets or clutching bags protectively. Intimidated, John stepped aside, pressing himself against the wall. As the group passed by, he recognized a thin figure in the back. Her curly hair moved lightly in the wind of the ever-present stormy atmosphere.

With no particular reasoning, John thought it would be best not to call out her name. He limped after the quickly moving group and grabbed her arm, pulling her into a doorway.

"John!" Sally gasped. Her mouth flapped open and shut a few times as she tried to form words. John stared at her desperate state, perplexed. Sally found her choice words. "Come this way with me."

Sally started to rush John away from his home, but not before he heard an egg splatter.

"Hey!" He exclaimed as he whipped around. The dark mob continued to paint the exterior of John's favorite slice of Baker Street with eggs and toilet paper. Sally grasped his shoulders, trying to turn him away from seeing the emerging spray cans and bricks. "What do you think you're doing? You're a cop, Sally! Stop them!"

John broke away from her and started towards the small congregation. Faces of mostly young people looked back at him; all except one older woman - the therapist. John stopped short and the group took their turn to run just as Sally caught up to John, holding his cane. He started to catch his breath, more caused by shock than exertion.

Sally's slender hand rested on his shoulder for a minute while she too caught her breath. For a moment, John felt a different hand on his back instead of Sally's – equally slender, but larger and more practiced with instruments and equipment of delicate nature. No, this hand was smaller and more elegant, feminine. It was Sally.

John abruptly turned to her, his eyes blazed ferociously as he put two and two together. _Sally was just with them… the people who just vandalized my flat… Ella was with them._

He stepped intimidatingly close to her, their noses almost touching as he growled to her, "What. Were. You. Doing. With. Them." Each word said with its own fiery anger.

"I-I wasn't. I was just tailing them." Sally stuttered. Her eyes, too, rapidly flickered back and forth between John's as Irene's had done between Sherlock's. It was not something John had noticed, but it was clear enough to see from above their heads for someone more analytical and aware of such small details.

John snarled back. "_You liar._ You were walking _with _them. You made no effort to stop them. What were you doing with them? And my therapist, what was she doing with them?"

Sally broke eye contact to scan the street, looking for a way out like an animal, like prey.

"Sally!" Still she kept her mouth shut, John realized it was most likely because she did not want to say anything too revealing.

"Look, Sally, I know that you went to my therapist after Sherlock died." John said more soothingly. "She told me. She told me why, what had happened between you and Sherlock, and she told me she 'got you to see the truth' – that he wasn't real or whatever." Sally involuntarily looked down at the sound of his name; it was a taboo to her just as it was to John. Again, it was not something John took notice of, but he was never one to see things as clearly as his late friend. Even at a certain height, he could take note of that shift in eye contact.

"What? She told you all this?" John nodded his head, eyes closed, almost as if he regretted hearing about it in the first place.

"Look, don't… err… just don't get upset. I'm not judging you or anything… I just…" John paused for a moment, taking a deep inhale before talking again. "Ella isn't who you think she is. She's, well, nuts. Had a bit of an episode last time I saw her, calling me insane after screaming at me hysterically then telling me I had to calm myself. You shouldn't believe what she shoves down your throat, ok? That's all I'm saying really."

Sally looked at John carefully. "She helped me. She helped me when he died, when no one else could. I felt so guilty then because of what happened… She helped me understand that I had nothing to do with his death. He was so awful to me… when I was first hired I absolutely adored him, and he shut me down every single time. He then went so far to publicly humiliate me almost every time I had to speak on behalf of the department on TV, every press conference… oh, you know, he would text the entire room. He had no control over his mouth, ever.

"So then Anderson would help me out, he explained that it was just Sherlock, and how he treated everybody. Anderson got me over a lot of the things Sherlock did to me. Anderson helped me understand that Sherlock isn't a sociopath, he's a psychopath. It made so much sense." John's mouth drew into a tight line, but he held his tongue. "but then… I mean we've suspected him before, but the evidence was so _perfect_. He messed up. Anderson and I had him, we knew he was the one who hurt the diplomat's children… but then it turns out _he_ was fake. The great Sherlock Holmes, not deviously creating one case but _every single case he was involved in_. Anderson and I were right from the start, he truly was a psychopath.

"We thought we drove him over the edge, though. Anderson hasn't felt guilty at all… but I have. After he died, all I could think was that '_I found him out, but he ended his life because of it – because of me'_. And the blood from shooting Richard Brooks?" John's mouth became a barely visible slit, his eyebrows dipping in frustration. "I not only thought that I had made him kill himself, but that it was my fault that Richard Brooks was shot.

"Ella helped me through this… I was such a mess… but she got me through. John, I know it's wrong to hate him, and I don't. I'm not a fan, but without a therapist I've decided that he was just so absolutely insane, he probably thought what he was doing was right. But Ella… she wouldn't hear that. She drags me out here all the time, and they do awful things."

John couldn't help but blurt out "Then stop them!"

"I can't!" Sally wailed. "She is as you said she is, John. She's nuts. All her thuggish friends with her are nuts as well. But the problem is, she's got me up against a brick wall. She's good friends with my boss… not Lestrade… and each time I haven't gone with her, there's been hell to pay at work. She made sure to tell me that she controls everything that's going on around here."

John scowled; throwing his hands above his head and swinging them back down again. As he looked to the dark London sky, he saw a dim light flicker out of the window to 221B.

"What was that?" He blurted out, panicked as his body went numb.

"What?" Sally asked, looking in the general direction that John's eyes were staring at intently. "It's just the eggs, John. It's fine."

"No… it was a light, a dim light!" John paused for a moment, weighing his options.

"C'mon, John. Leave it be."

"Sally, no. We're going inside. I know I saw that light."

John tenderly pushed open the familiar black door, making sure not to open it too quickly so that the knocker didn't swing. He could hear his heart thumping so loudly, it sounded like he was using a stethoscope on himself. His hand found the railing in the dark as if the lights were on and out of habit he skirted the center of the third step to avoid the groan of the wood. Sally followed his lead, unquestioning and silent as a cat. He was sure that whoever had the light on in the flat could hear his amplified heart and had fled through a back window. At this thought, John forced his numb legs up the stairs faster, hoping to catch the intruder.

The pair paused outside the door. John remembered that he hadn't been inside for months, almost a year now. His chest started to crumble and cave on itself as he remembered leaving abruptly that day right after Sherlock's death. Sally reassuringly rested her warm hand on his back; he looked over his shoulder to find her looking supportively back at him. John allowed himself a second to hang his head and pinch the bridge of his nose right between his eyes. Regaining his soldier-like stature, he tentatively opened the door and flicked on the lights.

The room before John and Sally was unrecognizable. Sally gasped, slamming one hand over her gaping mouth and the other clutching the space over her heart. John felt his knees weaken, but he grimaced and held firm – no cane at all. Loose papers, books, shelves, tabled, chairs, pillows, furniture stuffing, glasses, lab equipment, pots, pans, the entire flat looked to have endured a monstrous storm, violent winds ripping apart every last item from its designated spot. Bricks, stink-bombs, and the like littered the area closest to the two windows.

"John… this wasn't Ella. They never went inside, ever. They occasionally broke the windows, but never actually inside." Sally pleaded to John, assuming he was enraged.

He was not. Sally couldn't see because John's back was to her, but his face showed nothing but utter defeat. His mind returned to the first therapy session he did after his best friend died, the exact feeling of admitting his death strangled him inwardly again.

Determined not to be overcome by the sensation, John began to work his way into what was barely recognizable as the kitchen. Using the table to steady himself, John went to the refrigerator to check for anything remaining of his home. There was not a single trace of corpse to be found. John rummaged about, working his way through the rubbish to look for one sign of safety in the terrorizing situation he was now finding himself in.

Sally asked him what he was doing and if he needed help, and John responded "A skull. Help me find the skull."

Through the chaos of all the rooms but Sherlock's, there was not a single skull to be found. Sally even helped John to put together piles, organize the masses of his shattered home. Finally, John faced Sherlock's bedroom door.

"Do you want me to come in with you?" Sally asked kindly.

"No, I'll just be a second." John answered, having trouble moving his tongue out of apprehension. He turned the doorknob cautiously, pushing back the door with an eerie creaking groan from the hinges. John turned on the lamp, preparing for maximum damage.

Instead, Sherlock's room remained the same as always. John scanned the area carefully until his eyes rested on the bed. In the very center of the bed, the covers were scorched, a hole completely burned down to the mattress. A breeze ruffled the curtains on the window to his right, the window sloppily left ajar. John began to feel ill and shut the door as he exited.

"Nothing?" Sally said, trying to sound pleasant.

"Eh, no. I didn't see anything." John lied.


	7. Chapter 7: A Personal Pedicure

_Chapter Seven: A Personal Pedicure_

Sherlock threw himself violently across the space between two rooftops. His legs peddled through the air frantically without the shingles of the roofs he had streaked across under him. He morbidly thought to himself: _Falling, it's just like flying, only a more permanent destination_ – the words of an awesome man. Awesome - not as in radical or cool - but the exact definition; inspiring fear, awe, and admiration. Sherlock could see the man's horrible face jeering at him… '_Ordinary Sherlock… You're on the side of the angels… I will burn the heart out of you_…'

He hit a flat surface, landing in a quick succession of feet to knees to entire body, and Sherlock lay there.

He could feel his own blood on his cheek, a small pool emanating from his cheekbone. Moriarty's words choked him.

_I will burn the heart out of you._

Sherlock could faintly hear Irene calling him, quite possibly still on the edge of the rooftop, afraid to jump. He closed his eyes, wishing that the past year had been a horrible product of REM sleep. With or without sleep, the time passed was doubtlessly a series of nightmares.

Sherlock stood up, walked to the edge of the rooftop he had landed on, and stared at the ground far below him. Across the gap Irene stood breathlessly, swaying lightly in the cold breeze.

"I am not going to jump that space, Mr. Holmes."

"I wouldn't expect you to; we both know all too well that you could not possibly gain enough momentum."

Irene stared at him, eyes somewhat unfocused. She had not caught his pointed attempt at a joke. Her mind had been preoccupied since Sherlock made mention of the rhododendrons a certain consulting criminal had left for her. The conversation still sparked a little confusion to Sherlock, her fear, her immediate rebuttal with a sharp deduction, announcing openly what they had silently agreed never to speak of. She did not catch his pointed joke, but looked through him, thoughts in a different place.

More loudly, he spoke again. "Take the fire escape down to the street, I'll be down soon."

Sherlock turned on his heel, dark coat swishing out behind him and dark fringe flouncing on his head as he strode to the opposite edge of his rooftop. Perhaps Irene had recognized the open threat left in the flat - depending on her relationship with Moriarty - it was a probably. He could not assume, though.

Now that she could no longer see his face, Sherlock released the tight reign he had on his facial expression and his emotions. He was never one to wear his heart on his sleeve, but he could not consider the message left for him out of fear that the woman may have detected a breach in his stolid expression.

They danced a dangerous waltz – now more than before. Instead of silent understandings and agreements, it was now a game of secrets. Irene was hiding possible vital information on the whereabouts of Jim Moriarty and Mycroft, and Sherlock was withholding his true motives from her. Though, in this game, he had less to lose. At every new discovery Sherlock made, Irene was caught in a deeper pit she had dug herself.

From the moment she took him in, she had hardly expressed a note of her feelings (and love) for him – Sherlock was perfectly content with this. But as of late, she had begun to avoid excessive contact with him – not out of inability to deal with his boredom, but a peculiar anxiety she had developed. It was barely noticeable, the slightest tremor or flinch, silently padding to the opposite corner of her grand house, but it was there. Sherlock did not need any firsthand experience with love to know that flinching and shaking were not a part of it.

_Flinching and tremoring… Relationship with Moriarty…No longer in love with me?_ Sherlock made a mental note in his vast mind palace in plain view upon entry. Irene's a strong woman; she would be able to survive without his assistance for a short while.

Sherlock's thoughts flocked right back to Moriarty's words. _I will burn the heart out of you._ Heart, metonym, not literal. Heart, adoration, love, lovers, loving, friends, family, _Oh!_

Irene was right; Moriarty has Lestrade, John, and Mycroft close… too close. Fortunately, he left dear Mrs. Hudson alone. Moriarty was going to burn the heart out of Sherlock, starting with his only family left – Mycroft. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson wasn't as safe as Irene thought.

Sherlock had landed safely on his feet on the street below, Irene's heels signaling her approach with anxious clicking against the pavement. "You left the window open" She said, posture and composure regained.

Sherlock scowled and flew back below 221B, standing below his own lit window.

_John._

_John can't see the flat, John is with Sally, and she can't see it either._ He tried to imagine John's own reaction to the destroyed flat, Sally's commentary. A horrible list of profanities dating from the fifteenth century to present poured _sotto-voce_ from his lips as Sherlock fumbled for the door, not quite able to reach. Something pulled tight around his neck. _Scarf?_ _Yes_, Irene's delicate fingers held tight to his scarf and the back of his jacket, keeping him from reaching the handle of 221B's black door. Another slew of curses ensued.

"It's not worth it, the damage is done. We have to leave now, unless you want your boyfriend to find you." She added the last part of the sentence a bit maliciously.

_Boyfriend._ Sherlock imagined how John would react, 'I'm not his date!', 'He's not my boyfriend!' or 'I'm not gay!' A painful reminder of his best friend whom he left behind, plus a smirk at his quirks and characterizing comments, mixed onto Sherlock's face, leaving him with grimacing and squinting, crow's feet so prominent he would look like he was staring into a painful light (had the street not been dark).

John sat on his usual side of the taxi, Sally settling in Sherlock's usual spot. "Scotland Yard" John said to the cab driver. The driver hardly acknowledged the request.

John immediately began to scroll through his phone a few minutes, not interested in discussing what happened with Sally. She too sat on her phone, smiling genuinely at her screen, one leg tucked under her. Her foot twiddled happily, accidently brushing John's leg. He looked at her, quirking an eyebrow at her face, eyes sliding down to her phone. Anderson. _Oh… revolting_. John plugged himself back into his phone.

The cabbie slowed to a gentle stop, and the unusual pair in the back climbed out, still consumed with their own technologies.

"John, Sally!" A bewildered Investigating Detective acquiesced. This was not Scotland Yard. A run-down factory, door set ajar. John spun on his heel to see a familiar face, mouth open wide in an excited smile, wide enough easily fit a gun, long eyebrows forcing his forehead and hairline back.

"Catch ya later!" The cab peeled out, John desperately chasing after it. Lestrade and Sally followed his lead, catching up as John fell to his knees. His mouth hung open, willingly greeting the dust dancing in the cab's wake.

"What the bloody hell is going on?" Lestrade panted, Sally clutched a stich in her side, and John stared confounded at the space where the car had disappeared.

"Mor- Moriarty."

"What?" The officers exclaimed in unison. John sighed, again pinching the bridge of his nose. He knew his options: repeat that he saw Moriarty or brush it off. _Brush off the man he loathed?_ No.

John looked up at Sally's face; her eyes too were no trained hard on the point of disappearance. She had said Sherlock was insane, no responsible for his actions. For hurting Moriarty – no, she said Richard Brooks. He swore in his head.

"Nothing… never mind. I didn't see anything." Lestrade looked confused.

"But I thought you said-"

"It was nothing!" John slammed his eyes shut, capturing the brief second of Jim's face he had seen. Had he seen it? '_Catch ya later!'_ The words returned to him in an eerie echo, the sound of hid voice like the after sound of a siren passing by; out of pitch, icily creeping into your ears. John shuddered.

If he had seen Moriarty, had been in the cab with him, completely at his mercy - _another shudder_ – and had been dumped here, there must be something important left for them. _But why Lestrade?_

John turned to the man in the trench coat. "Why are you here?"

"Oh!" He turned slightly pink in the dim light. "Right! I was going to text you, but I got called over not too long after you left." Lestrade led the trio back towards the old, barren building, through the door left ajar and down a path.

The whimpering of a younger woman bounced off the cold, unforgiving metal walls. When they reached the open space, John identified the sound of the crying. John could clearly see in the artificial light Lestrade had provided a tight, black dress, elegant pearls, and stilettoes. Amber brown curls gracefully fell from her head, which rested upon Anderson's shoulder. Sally openly snorted in distaste, Lestrade raising his thick peppered eyebrows at her.

John studied the woman's face; imagine no puffy eyes or lines from weeping. Of course! Mycroft's assistant, _or car-woman (?)_, Anthea. Delicate, desirable, beautiful, and far out of his own league. Anderson tucked her head into his neck as she peered back to the center of the room, cringing. John looked where she had glanced, cringing as well.

Blood - too much blood. Not enough to kill a man, some older stains than others, but most was fresh. In the center of the pool of blood lay a pale foot.

Lestrade handed John covers for his feet. "This is all you, Doc. I was just stepping outside to call you to come over when you and Sally showed up." John seldom needed to raise an eyebrow for Lestrade to grimly answer the question left dangling in front of him. "We're testing to see if it's Mycroft's blood and foot now." John nodded.

Gloving both hands, he silently walked to the foot. Toenails trimmed nicely, no particular damage to the foot besides the obvious; wound indicates the victim (Mycroft) was alive during the removal. Conscious, too, John assumed by the blood patterns around the foot. A cold hand gripped his spine. John never had much sympathy for Mycroft, never considered his odd stalking of the younger Holmes via CCTV camera an act of kindness, of brotherly love. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn't. But he did have sympathy now, staring at (probably) Mycroft's foot. It was a clean cut, but still agonizing at bare minimum. John's shoulder that had been shot in Afghanistan gave a slight ache in agreement.

John reported his observations back to Lestrade, feeling incompetent and inferior compared to the analysis his late partner could have given. But with one look at Anderson, he gained an inch of self-confidence back. _ At least I'm not as bad as him_. Anderson juggled a traumatized Anthea and a nettled Sally.

Molly wrote feverishly, scrawling and hardly intelligible handwriting slanting across the spare paper. She wanted to sign her name, but knew Sherlock forbade it.

She remembered his energized words, that long night before the fall, explaining every detail of his plan to her. She took notes. '_What if the letters are intercepted? I appreciate a good messenger from the homeless network just like anyone else, but you have to be as vague as possible. Anything can happen, and your updates are all I will have_' He had gripped her wrists tightly, she automatically jumped back an inch because of his sudden excitement. He never realized that only he could ever comprehend and follow his own thoughts. He always caught her off guard.

The messenger tapped the lab table with dirty fingers; Molly cringed before returning her attention to the letter.

"_Found a foot last night in an abandoned warehouse, matched your brother's blood sample. One of his women-for-hire assistants was there and found it. In shock, can't get her to explain how she found the foot._

"_He's alive, but barely. Needs medical attention. John-"_

She furiously crossed out his name – he would berate her endlessly over it.

"-_He was there, there was a big mess, can't say it was very good for him."_ A simple, easy letter, explaining everything. She hastily added more. "_Stop by if you need to examine, and He needs to know. He can't act like a soldier forever._"

Molly added the last bit, hoping Sherlock would read into it, recognizing her own ability to relate because she had to hold up her family after her father died. Sherlock would know that was why she was always so jittery, unsociable, nervous, open-hearted, etc. It was because she had to be the soldier, just like John. She did not want to see him suffer like she did, but knew it was already too late for that.

The messenger impatiently snatched the letter and fled from the room of antiseptics, chemicals, microscopes, and other lab equipment. Molly had a faint clue that Sherlock was no longer living at Irene's house, but the messenger refused to share where he was hiding out. Typical Sherlock.


	8. Chapter 8: Burn the Heart

_Chapter Eight: Burn the Heart_

The room was dark; Molly had all but turned off a single light, the fluorescent bulb bathing the room in a green hue. The light flickered relentlessly, slowly alternating from pitch black to awful green. Before Molly left the corpses for the night, she remembered Mycroft's foot - she had forgotten to put the identification tag around his toe. Without bothering to flick the other lights back on, she walked quickly to open the drawer where a single foot lay, surreal in the space where an entire body would be.

_Off, on, off, on_.

Molly could see her own breath as she quickly wrote out the tag.

_Off, on, off_.

The room became consumed by darkness. Molly huffed an impatient sigh, grumbling about the poor standards of the morgue as the icy air of the room started to numb her hands. She groped for Mycroft's foot in the dark, but it wasn't there.

_On._

Molly jumped backwards, falling onto the solid, cold tile floor, bruising her elbows and tailbone. She gasped sharply, filling her lungs with the icy air.

_Off._

Molly blindly scrambled backwards, hands clawing for something to hold on to, some assurance of safety.

_On._

The room was completely bathed in lights, all of which had been turned on. It took on a yellowish atmosphere, almost making the room feel warmer.

"So sorry, didn't mean to scare you." He turned the foot over in his bare hand, examining it closely.

"Sherlock!" Molly vociferated. "Don't startle me like that! I thought you were…" She faltered, trembling slightly as she relived Sherlock's darkly shadowed outline suddenly looming over her, any distinguishing features hidden under a hooded disguise.

"You thought I was Moriarty." He stated plainly.

"Yes…" She glanced at her shoes uncomfortably. "Sorry."

Sherlock held the foot out at arm's length, eyes absorbing every single detail. He pivoted suddenly, without explanation or warning, and took the foot up to the lab. Molly followed him without a word, struggling to keep his brisk pace without resorting to a jog.

"I didn't think you'd ever show up." Molly confessed. It had been over a month since she sent the letter to him via the homeless network; she had begun to worry as he had not sent her any sign that he was still alive.

"Bit of a mix up, your letter was almost intercepted, so I decided to lay low." He said plainly. Sherlock placed some residue from his brothers' foot onto a slide, and then gently laid it under the microscope. Molly knew this was as close to an apology as she would get out of him.

She quietly studied his face as he worked to determine the properties of the substance he found on the foot. His placid expression gave her no hint to how he was handling his brother's disappearance and obvious torture.

Molly wanted to believe that deep down, hidden beneath layers of protective shields, Sherlock was afraid for his brother. She hoped that he was desperately searching and scouring all of London for him, that he cared.

Sherlock did care. For the past five or six weeks, with the aid of Irene, he used all the evidence he could gather without Mycroft's foot to find his brother. He pursued many false leads and trails, all coming to a dead end. Sherlock could practically see Moriarty's taunting face, telling him '_the only way [he] could ever hope to find his brother was with the foot, why put such an important body part to waste?_'

"So… you're not… you're not upset or anything?" Molly asked. He raised an eyebrow, questioning her but never actually looking at her. "I mean, about your brother… you know…" Her voice faltered.

Sherlock gently put down the test tube he was working with, about to tell her as nicely as possible to not attempt any small talk, when he came to a realization. He was finding the properties of the dust too easily; they had been deliberately put on the foot. Dusty, dry soil - native to only a small area of England. Not an area of many factories, but small metal filings gave him the exact one he was looking for. It was too easy.

Moriarty wanted to meet him there, of course not immediately, or else the consulting criminal would not have scared off the messenger. He wanted to see Sherlock's face, to know he was right – that Sherlock had survived the fall. _Why waste such an important body part?_

Sherlock cursed his brother; of course he would have to go, unless he wanted Mycroft to lose another vital limb.

A bewildered Molly stared at him, mouth hanging open slightly while the detective slung his jacket over his shoulders. "Wha…."

"Sorry, Molly, but I've got to go."

Sherlock's legs jittered violently on the ride to the abandoned factory. Irene was taking rapid, shallow breaths. She had been having a minor anxiety attack from the moment Sherlock told her what he knew, but never once objected to going. He reverted back to the mental note he left himself. _What was/is her relationship with Moriarty?_ Certainly it couldn't be a good one.

The time that passed from exiting the cab and entering the factory seemed non-existent, like they had suddenly teleported. Sherlock and Irene faced a dark room; neither could see more than five meters in front of themselves.

Irene's legs gave out beneath her, and she crumpled to the ground, crying out in pain, her hands tremored violently around her own neck. Sherlock rushed to her side and stooped downward to aid her, but she fell backwards as he reached out to her.

"N-n-n-no!" She spewed. Her whole body convulsed violently again, white foam gathering around the corners of her mouth. "D-d-d-d-don't touch-h m-me!"

Sherlock held his ground, not moving closer nor further from the woman. She pulled her knees into her chest, laying on the cold metal ground on her side as she whimpered quietly to herself.

Sherlock's mind raced while he fought the urge to help her. _Such convulsions could only be caused by an electric current… her hands immediately went to her neck… obviously an electric collar of some sort, triggered by something in the factory, but how had I not seen it?_ Sherlock flicked his eyes to her collar, pulled up around her neck protectively, but not showing the slightest bulge or bump indicating a collar. _She wasn't wearing the same necklace every day, and she wouldn't have purposely put on the device… implanted._

The lights above clicked on, revealing a high ceiling and an empty room – except for Sherlock's bound and blindfolded brother.

"I wouldn't speak directly to him if I were you." A snakelike voice cut Sherlock off before he could utter his brothers' name. He turned from the broken and beaten man to the sound of the voice.

Sherlock retained his composure. "No, why is that?"

Moriarty hung his head at the consulting detective's ignorance. "Come on now, you wouldn't want him to react like Irene, would you? Or that little girl, so petrified of you, just with one glance? You know, it's not that you're that repulsive to look at…" He glanced at Sherlock, up and down. "I think it may have been a misfortunate accident."

"Yes… torture and hijacking by electrocution is rather unfortunate, isn't it? And that's what happened to John's therapist, too?"

"Oh, Ella? Yes, but she never liked you to begin with." Moriarty smiled. "You incarcerated her brother for killing six people, she thought you were wrong. Just imagine how easy she was to train, already hating you? Well… it didn't have the same effect… she went a bit mad afterwards, but not enough damage to keep her from watching your pet for me."

Sherlock pulled a gun at the mention of John.

"Ahhh" Moriarty sighed. "Now you're keeping a gun tucked in the belt of your pants, behind you? Can't say it wasn't a good attempt, but we both know I have a certain knack for surviving bullets."

Sherlock's wild eyes were fixed on Moriarty's, his gun trained to the man's forehead.

"You're soldier does too… well… a shoulder injury. Maybe not a hole through, let's say, his chest?" Moriarty threatened with a devilish grin.

A passionate rage engulfed Sherlock. "How did you survive?" He demanded.

"A magician never tells his secrets…" Moriarty laughed, smiling at the ground. He looked back at Sherlock, the bemused smile fading from his cheeks. Suddenly, he turned from man to demon.

Moriarty took out a lighter, lit a cigarette and balanced it between his lips as he mumbled through it.

"You remember when your parents died? That horrible, tragic fire at your house? Your dear brother," he gestured toward a twitching Mycroft. "Took you outside, the walls of your home crumbling behind you? He would not let you go back for them. You were only ten, he was seventeen. He held you down as you watched your parents disappear into the ash.

"Tell me, Sherlock…. Do you remember their screams?"

Moriarty paused to blow a cloud of nicotine and tar into the air, leaving Sherlock a few moments to relive the horrid night.

There was no chance that his parents could have lived, the only people that could have been rescued were Sherlock and Mycroft, the furthest from the flames. It was three in the morning. Their backs were frozen by the winter winds behind them, their faces scorched by the engulfed house in front of them. Mycroft had to wrestle Sherlock to the ground, where he lay, trying to escape, to save their parents, until he wore himself so weak that he couldn't move .The fire department came, extinguished the flames, removed the bodies, and left. Mycroft was allowed custody of his brother after pulling a few strings, but kept a nanny to watch him for the remaining years of Sherlock's childhood.

The corner said their parents died from the smoke, they had no chance, but Mycroft claimed to regret not trying to wake them, to save them instead. These words would be thrown at young Sherlock in their terrible fights, but the accusations came from both sides – always from one that the other had caused their parent's death. Mycroft forever was caring for Sherlock, in the most inadvertent ways, and Sherlock was forever helping Mycroft when his powers of deduction were needed. But neither brother would admit they did not despise the other - neither would admit they cared.

Moriarty continued. "But he's still your brother, your only family, Sherlock. Shame Lestrade and John are only just arriving, won't be able to see me-" He flicked his lighter back to life, leaning over and letting the monstrous flame take too easily to the bandage on Mycroft's amputated ankle. "-burn the _heart_ out of you."

Moriarty snatched the blindfold off of struggling Mycroft. At the sight of his brother, he knocks himself and the chair he was seated in into a well-positioned puddle of gasoline, a thin trail of it snaking to the back corner of the room, to a large pile of gunpowder. Moriarty disappeared.

Irene was already struggling over to Mycroft, wrapping her own jacket around his head to blind him. Sherlock rushed to her aid and they speedily unbound Mycroft. His body was consumed by the flames, but Sherlock took no notice as he slung the man over himself and ran, dragging Irene at his side. Sherlock's natural speed and rush of adrenaline rocketed them from the empty factory; they were halfway down the narrow corridor when the gunpowder began to explode.

Sherlock rolled his brother desperately on the ground, trying to extinguish the flames. Irene shoved him down and began to put Mycroft out so that Sherlock could extinguish his own jacket.

By the time Lestrade and John arrived, the blindfolded man, the electrocuted woman, and the crisp brother were climbing into a cab they had called around the back of the building, making arrangements to send Mycroft to the hospital, as neither could themselves because – theoretically – neither were living.

Sherlock arranged for Molly to remove the chip implanted in Irene's neck immediately, then eventually Mycroft after his recovery. Through Irene, Sherlock extracted that Moriarty had been using a remote to trigger the electrocutions while training Irene, Ella, Mycroft, and the American diplomat's children to fear Sherlock. The only torture he had not completed was on Irene – Sherlock would further interrogate her later.

Lestrade pulled up outside John's temporary flat in a squad car. John had just been heading out to go to Sherlock's grave; it was only just over a week until the anniversary of his death.

"Anonymous tip - a good one too." Lestrade beamed. He looked at John's confused face, his own smile faltering. "We didn't announce Mycroft was missing or anything, and I doubt it was Moriarty leaving the tip… I just figured you'd want to come…"

John snapped out of his delirium. "Yeah. Yes, sure." He said as eagerly as possible.

After an awkward ride, the pair finally arrived at their destination.

"Fuck." Lestrade breathed. The building was burning to the ground.

John began to run straight towards the flames. The only thing on his mind was not the politic who had the potential to destroy anyone and everyone, but the man that was the only family remaining of his dead best friend


	9. Chapter 9: Home Is Where the Heart Is

_Chapter Nine: Home Is Where the Heart Is_

Sherlock looked down at the chip, a look of disgust on his face. It read _'I O U'_. _Of course, as if almost burning my brother alive and trying to get my only friends to catch me escaping a burning building isn't enough_. He thought malevolently.

Mycroft stared at him from the hospital bed, new, fresh, raw skin covering the majority of his body; all except his politically perfect face. A little bit of therapy and a chip removal has allowed him to not react violently to his brothers' face.

Sherlock twiddled the chip, throwing it up in the air and catching it before stowing it in his pocket. The timid sensation Mycroft's intense stare gave him could not be lessened by distractions. Sherlock felt uncomfortable providing his full attention, knowing what Mycroft had to say, but knew their meeting could not adjourn before he heard his brother speak. To speak requires full attention, according to Mycroft.

"Sherlock, Moriarty is just going to go after John now, you know." Mycroft said in a brittle voice.

'_Nice to see you too, brother. Glad you didn't die when you jumped off that building, just to let you know, the article I read on it in my cushioned chair at the Diogenes Club was truly biased. What a shame.'_ Sherlock mocked Mycroft in his head defectively. He glanced at his brother's amputated foot shamefully, and then reverted back to providing his full attention.

"You need to protect him." Sherlock began to feel rage rising in him.

"Isn't that why I jumped off the damn building to begin with? So those assassins living on every side of our flat wouldn't kill him?" Sherlock spat.

"Dear brother, we are no longer dealing with any assassin, we're dealing with the world's smartest man and most dangerous criminal, one who somehow managed to survive a bullet to the head – unless you've figured out how he did it." Mycroft replied evenly. Sherlock scowled.

_And what could your government goons have possibly done so that you can assuredly say that we aren't dealing with any assassins?_

Sherlock had circled around Moriarty himself – there nothing hiding on the back of his head to release blood (with the trigger of the gun as a remote), and the gun wasn't a fake. But Sherlock could not know for sure what had happened because he had closed his eyes. He pressed both his palms against his forehead, squeezing his eyes tightly shut.

"No, I haven't a clue."

"Of course you don't." Mycroft's tone remained neutral. "I have nothing left to say except to reiterate that you need to protect John, you need to tell him you're alive - and soon - so that you can properly keep him out of Moriarty's grasp. You need him, Sherlock, maybe more than he needs you." Mycroft's clear eyes glinted, _was that emotion?_ _The man that told me that caring is not an advantage? Is this a 'last wish'?_

Irene had warned Sherlock outside that every wound on Mycroft's body was riddled with infection, and his wounds were extensive. Some of the infections were severe, but they believed he would make it through. Sherlock did not need to hear this, he had clearly identified the worst infections Mycroft had and mentally prescribed him with the proper medication. Mycroft would doubtlessly survive, especially with his connections to the best doctors around.

Mycroft expressed doubt, though. He implied that Sherlock needed John to look out for him as an older brother, in place of Mycroft's constant spying with cameras and even phone taps. _What deep signs of caring_.

Sherlock did need John to help him, not a question to it, but John had, as of late, been safer without Sherlock. _Friends protect people._ John had said it himself. The fact that Sherlock needed John was irrelevant, because to protect John, John needed Sherlock to stay away.

To reassure himself that his brother would not be left in poor care, Sherlock stole a doctor's lab jacket, name tag, and overall attire. He left the nurses specific instructions on what to administer Mycroft and to obey only these instructions, 'a government official's life is on the line'. Irene watched the whole scene, admiring and amused.

They truly were masters of disguise, Sherlock thought, remembering to question Irene.

Lestrade's fingers wrapped tightly around John's wrists, his grip was unexpectedly strong for such an exhausted, overworked man. John yanked to free himself, pulling from his shoulders, half-crazed and half desperate to jump straight into the fire.

"_NNNNO"_ He hissed through clenched teeth. Lestrade's feet started to slip on the loose, sandy ground and John pulled the pair of them forward in a Clydesdale manner. Lestrade fell back as John freed his hands and flew toward the flames.

John could not feel the hot metal fry the skin on his palms as he shoved the door back. He hardly acknowledged the white-hot searing pain that began to lick at his skin; horrible, fiery skeleton arms grabbing at his loose clothing and clinging, the vicious fingers teasingly stroking through to his moist, sweaty back. He was only aware of Mycroft – a soldier never leaves a man behind.

Suddenly, John felt it all. The horrible fingers of fire ensnaring him. The smoke beginning to fill his lungs, clouding his mind in an ashy haze. The strength to cough was long gone; the strength to resist the tugging sensation pulling him backwards was nonexistent.

"Are you out of your bloody mind?" Lestrade sputtered. Both men grasped their knees, doubled over, heaving desperately for air. John batted out the small flames still clinging to him hopefully, as if they were trying to keep him as another victim. Lestrade regained his grip, holding John around his arm, which was tense and ready to spring into an animated sprint as soon as John could push the smoke from his throat. "You're not going anywhere. Wait for the fire department."

John gave Lestrade a steely glare.

The cool air soothed his scorched back; his front was being warmed by the glow of the factory, which was completely engulfed by flames. The heat made his burnt hands ignite in pain - John desperately wanted to clench them and enclose the unbearable blistering heat emanating from under his skin, but knew the agonizing consequences. Instead, he compressed his lungs, deflated his chest, and pulled his rib cage inward until his sternum ached from the pressure. He stood there, trying his hardest to force his body to implode as he watched Mycroft's chances of escape dwindle to none. The roof gave a low groan, tilting inwards briefly before crashing down.

John shut his eyes tight, knitting his eyebrows together and casting his head down. The wail of sirens became barely audible in the distance, but Lestrade did not make a comment to assure John that Mycroft would now be pulled out by professionals with masks and fire-proof suits. He only stood next to John, letting his grip loosen and his hand fall to rest on his own hip, symmetrical to his other hand. His head too, like John, fell down from its strong and reassuring, high-chinned position.

Any measurement of time could not be applied to the following period. Suited fire-fighters shoved past the bested men. An ambulance pulled up behind the pair, faceless hands pulling them back, treating them, asking questions, but Lestrade and John could not hear or feel. They were numb to time, place, and feeling; they only observed all the action around them, like watching a silent play. The actors played their parts well, executing the scene perfectly. Through shock-addled eyes, the process alternated from figures whipping around the site in a blur to slow, highly defined motion. The break of daylight broke this trance, and John and Lestrade suddenly became aware of what had happened.

Firefighters had sifted through the rubble, scouring the remains for any sign of a burned corpse. Their chief stood in front of John and Lestrade, scrunching up his pale and soot-smeared face in the suns glare. The ambulance had apparently disappeared in the time that-had-no-effect. The firefighter spoke, wringing his gloves anxiously in his scarred hands.

"There was no body."

The four words struck John like a brick wall.

"Alright. Thanks, Chief." Lestrade croaked. The sooty man closed his eyes and pressed his mouth tightly shut, nodding in understanding. John wasn't sure what the man was understanding. "Let's head out." This was spoken to John.

The blogger cocked his head to the side. "What?"

"Home. Let's get you home."

Lestrade pulled up next to John's dingy, cramped flat. _Oh._ He thought. Was he expecting 221B, Baker Street?

The answer is yes.

John wordlessly parted, Lestrade too consumed by a long text on his phone for a goodbye.

John hung his coat without even glancing into the dim flat, turning around to face a sight that made him nearly jump out of his skin.

He lurched from the horrid vision, calling to Lestrade, screaming, practically crying out for him. John didn't realize until his fists slammed on the roof of the car that Lestrade was already by his side, eyes wide and terrified.

John led him into the flat.

From the moment they walked in, the stench of death seeped into their nostrils. The first thing John would have seen, had he not hung his jacket, would have been a man, slumped at his desk, one stiff hand with fingers dangling over the keyboard to his laptop, ready to dance across the keys to describe an adventurous day but held above the keys by the hesitation and self-doubt his depression brought on. The man's face was even posed to reflect John's expression entirely – deep in thought, engrossed with wordless ideas behind his eyes, mirrored through every line on his face.

As they move forward, two more bodies were positioned in a Watson-manner. One sat at the edge of a chair, one hand on a cane, frozen in the middle of opening his hand to re-clench the handle, a subconscious habit John suddenly became aware of.

The other lay on top of John's bed. Hands entwined behind his head and a bullet wound straight through his chest – the shirt was still stained with blood. His eyes were open and gazing at a fixed point between him and the ceiling, also absorbed by his thoughts – possibly a nostalgic one (based on John's reminiscent thoughts while he lay awake in bed during insomnia-riddled nights). This victim was the only one with an obvious cause of death.

On John's bedside table was a note, horrible scrawling handwriting in thick, heavy ink.

"_This man's bullet was meant for you, John Hamish Watson."_ John shivered slightly. "_You are lucky that Mycroft had all these wonderful friends of mine stopped, or else you wouldn't have made it very long. In fact, you're lucky that Sherlock jumped off of St. Bart's, or you would've died right then and there._

_You're forever in debt to the Holmes brothers, aren't you, John?_

_Mycroft still managed to make it this long, though he is in pretty bad conditions at the hospital. I'd visit while I still had time, if I were you. Then again, you could always just hang around here and make friends with your new roommates._

_I'll see you very soon, Doctor."_

The note wasn't signed. It didn't have to be.

John felt queasy, the floor gently tilted from left to right underneath him, he wondered how Lestrade stood so steadily. John stowed the note hastily in his pocket, noticing for the first time his hands were bandaged.

"Carbon Monoxide." Lestrade said after ten minutes had passed in silence.

"Hm?" John replied.

"The bodies were positioned with carbon monoxide. 'S why they're so rigid."

"Right."

Lestrade's team busted through the door in a loud congregation. John took this opportunity to slip past and leave as they got busy.

Again, his feet carried him back to Baker Street, and John let them. He craved safety, an asylum of familiarity filled with warm and comforting memories. Mrs. Hudson was not in, but John was thankful. He didn't want to give any explanations or excuses for his return, he didn't want to sit and talk over tea either. John only longed for the familiar smells of experiments-gone-wrong, even if they were faded and stale.

He closed the door behind him, hoping that if anyone discovered he was back in his rightful dwelling they would not bother him. John sat in his favorite chair and closed his eyes, letting himself slip into a trance.


	10. Chapter 10: Illusion v Reality

John lurched forward in his chair, an unknown force startling him, the mental effect as powerful as a hand grenade's explosion.

He observed his environment quietly for a moment, taking the time to observe the makeshift piles he had made with Sally scattered around the room.

It was his home, destroyed, then patched with the help from an unexpected friend. John considered his luck, his fortune in finding an unexpected companion. Sally, who was so ready to hate Sherlock, put that aside to perform an act of kindness, despite her selective blindness to the insane extremists worshipping Moriarty/Richard Brooks.

John walked to the kitchen, opening a cabinet in search for tea. He did not want to call Mrs. Hudson, not wanting to bother her nor be bothered and fussed over. There was nothing he wanted more than a simple cup of tea and his familiar chair, which fit to his body like an old leather glove to the owners hand.

An odd smell emanated from the cabinet, making John slightly lightheaded. He scowled, cursing the most-likely-year-old experiment hiding in the back of the cupboard. The smell trickled in through his nose and wrapped around the circumference of the inside of his skull, then moving inward. Both his vision and his mind were consumed in grey clouds, menacing thunderheads stifling his thoughts and sight.

"_Let's play a game, John."_ A too familiar, demonic voice spoke.

The floor suddenly came up to meet John's face.

Crawling, thin legged, tickling in the most horrid and frightening way. A feeling anyone would recognize, that would make most throats rip out a horrible, ripping, blood curdling scream. Spiders. Creeping up John's body, teetering over him, ignoring him.

He groggily looked up, following their trail.

In a black swarm, a man's figure stood. Slicked back hair, strong posture donned in an austere suit, stolid but not plain expression.

Instinctually, John grabbed a kitchen knife and hurdled himself over to the mass that began to change colors, skin becoming a pale pink and suit turning navy blue, head rolling in a reptilian fashion from side to side, chin cutting a figure eight.

John plunged the knife deep into where the heart should be, if this man had one. He sliced through thin air.

The room filled with a horrible, echoing laugh. John turned to the source, Moriarty standing on Sherlock's chair. He smiled like a Cheshire cat, grotesquely beaming as if he enjoyed being stabbed.

"Come on, _Joooooooohn_, a knife? You're a trained army doctor! Surely you must know hand combat? Let's play fair."

The steel blade started to drip, a metallic puddle forming on the floor. He dropped the plastic handled, panting slightly, eyelids forced back into his skull. The absurdity of the situation became apparent, which Moriarty realized.

"What a loyal pet you have been, so brave and strong. But, I'm afraid you're running out of time." Moriarty stepped gracefully off the chair. "You better find the present I left for you in this flat, or you will have a lot more trouble with hallucinations, reality and fantasy morphing into one… Try and remember what is real…" His face turned from sadistically bemused to demonic "And what's only an illusion."

The jigsaw puzzle of spiders that had apparently knit together to form Moriarty began to come apart, raining down what remained of his body and scuttling in every direction. John jumped on them, trying to crush them with his feet desperately until they all but disappeared.

John scanned the room, looking for the next onslaught of hallucinations as well as their source.

His eyes found the spot where the knife had melted, but it was no more. He quickly got on his knees in one agile motion and groped the floor for any sign of the knife – metal or liquid. He was unsuccessful.

Rising in a panic, he fled to the kitchen, where one cabinet was left ajar. John's hands scoured every shelf, he flung open every drawer and cupboard in the entire flat, desperately trying to find the source of the hallucinogen.

Slumping against the counter, he glanced at the knife-holder. All were present, probably not even disturbed for a year.

It was John's second day back in 221B, he did not remember falling asleep, but found himself curled in a ball in the corner of Sherlock's room, behind the door and beneath a poster of the periodic table.

He awoke with a start, bolting into a standing position, but crumpling in two as his leg complained violently to the sudden movement. Blinking heavily, John tried to focus his eyes, but they shook uncontrollably, the image of Sherlock's bedroom morphing into a street, the world tilting slightly under him as he stumbled forward.

The bedroom disappeared completely as John staggered towards a body, his head lolling on his shoulders helplessly.

No one else was there around the body. It was only John, but he grit his teeth and pushed towards it, remembering the vertigo and discombobulation after being too close to an exploding grenade, rushing to aid a fallen comrade in battle.

He rolled the body so that the face and full damage was visible, the man was dead, John determined, his pulse was gone and his hand icy cold.

It was Sherlock.

He head surged upwards, the back of his head soaked with his own blood. He grabbed John's shirt, tugging him in close enough to hear the rustling of his hair, the tickling and rapid breaths Sherlock was taking.

He whispered quietly, barely audibly; words John knew the real Sherlock would have never uttered.

"You were just part of the act."

John recognized that it wasn't real. But in front of him lay his best friend, appearing dead, physically dead, but still able to somehow imitate life.

John clenched the man's hand, a giant weight pressing down on him as he lay Sherlock's head on his knee.

"Don't. Don't do this, please don't. Not you. You're dead, you died because of Moriarty. He said it himself, in a letter; you were protecting me from his assassins. It wasn't an act. You weren't faking it."

Sherlock's face twisted angrily, anger John had only seen when Moriarty stood behind Kitty Riley in her flat, claiming to be an actor.

"IT'S YOUR FAULT!"

John shut Sherlock's eyes, silencing him, returning him to his original death.

_It isn't real. This isn't real._

He repeated the two sentences in his head, blinking rapidly to expel the street scene around him.

An itchy comforter scratched his skin as he turned his head, the smell of burnt fabric seeping down his throat.

He was back in his apartment, laying in the fetal position on Sherlock's burnt bed.

The sun was rising in the sky, a whole day had passed while he was locked inside his own mind, being tortured by his deepest fears.

He could not eat.

His paranoia level escalated so high that the thought of food was repelling, even if there was any to be eaten.

He did have to drink, but only allowing himself water from the tap, and alternating to every tap within the flat.

This third day was when he tentatively gripped the doorknob, turning it but barely so, it stuck on a lock.

He flipped every lock on the door to open, and tried again to no avail.

With a great sigh of annoyance, John slumped in his favorite chair. He knew to expect a horrific reincarnation of Sherlock or Moriarty to appear out of thin air.

He did not expect the door to click. He listened, frozen in place, waiting for a violent and raging storm to come through and decimate the place. It was not a storm, it was Ella.

She stood in the doorway, looking morose, and walked in without asking permission.

"John, I'm so sorry to hear about your friend. I know you were close with Sherlock."

"He died about a year ago, Ella. You know this. He makes you crazy."

She raised an eyebrow at him, and then crouched to eyelevel with John in his chair. "I'm not sure what you're talking about, he died just last week."

John stared at her wildly before she nodded at the ground, understanding. "I see. It's okay, John, this is very normal. Your mind has decided to skip over the most painful time after someone's death, you probably have trouble remembering all that happened. Am I right?"

"No. You're not. I remember clearly what happened. I went to do therapy sessions with you, and you were completely nuts. You trashed this apartment!" He spastically gestured to the unusual state of the room. "You blackmailed a detective; you had control over all these lunatics… I remember."

He expected another explosion from her, like the last visit John had with his therapist, but her voice remained calm, it was almost gentile, caring.

"And how did Sherlock die, John?"

"He jumped from a roof, to stop the assassins Moriarty hired."

"Who is Moriarty?"

"He's a genius, an evil genius; he was playing games with Sherlock with the bomb killings. You remember, they were in the news!" John pleaded, seeing the look of confusion on Ella's face. "He was the one who robbed the bank of London, he wore the crown jewels and opened the prison!" The only change her face made was to one of making a grim decision.

Frustrate, John stood up, catching Ella by surprise by moving without any apparent motive.

"I think you will want to come with me, we can run a few tests and get this all sorted out. It will all be fine"

John boiled over with rage. This awful, psychotic woman was intruding on his home, trying to trick him out of her own insane needs.

"Go, Ella. Leave now."

Luckily for the therapist, John's true emotions could always be seen on his face as plainly as if they were written in giant words. She disappeared into thin air, John pressing his palms into his eyebrows.

He had no phone; it was left in his jacket pocket at his once flat, now crime scene.

He tried every window and the door, all tightly sealed, unable to be unlocked.

It was the dead of night, somewhere in between the fifth and sixth day that had passed in a series of living nightmares. Moriarty had been right, John could barely recognize the difference between real and fake, illusion and reality constantly swapped positions.

Finding the right way out of a hallucination became like trying to find the right cup of five, the one with a ball underneath. The cups used to switch places, sliding around in a doe-see-doe in an effort to confuse John. It was a simple game. By now, though, the ball could be pulled out from the cup from underneath and placed under a different cup – all unseen to John. He could still distinguish where the ball was based on locating the sound of the ball under the cup, but he was slowly becoming deaf.

The absurdity of the situation was not decreasing, but John's ability to recognize it was increasing.

Throughout the fifth day, he experienced traumatizing nightmares, his friends – dead and alive – that he cared for came to him and tortured him. Physically and mentally he was beaten and tormented mercilessly.

The situation had become so desperate that he stood with his gun in his hand, the safety off.

The sound of a single shot boomed through 221B.

The bullet lodged itself in midair, millimeters from the lock on the door where John was aiming.

He cursed a stream of swears loudly and bitterly. John tried to keep the image of the stopped bullet in mind, to remind himself that there would be a hallucination to ensue so he could braced his mind for any deterring talk against Sherlock, desperate attempts to convince John that he was just a con.

In the dark room, Sherlock's familiar stance stretched upward, his hands the size of John's entire body alone. The ceiling stretched to accommodate to the giant.

_The bullet, remember the bullet!_

John concentrated so fiercely, he shouted at the monstrous Sherlock above.

_NO!_

The giant howled and began to decompose vividly before John's very eyes, shirking down to Sherlock's normal height.

The gruesome image shook John to his core, but he held steadfast, even as the rotting corpse croaked one pathetic word, one single plea.

"Help."

John grinded his teeth and slammed his eyes shut, erasing Sherlock's decomposing body from his mind.

He threw the gun aside, almost forgetting that he was holding it to begin with, and slammed himself blindly against the door.

A force shoved back, surprising John enough to let the door move enough for petite Mrs. Hudson to come in, absolutely bewildered.

"John! What in the world are you doing?" John stared at her blankly, not sure if he could trust the woman before him. "Well come on then, I was just going to Sherlock's grave, you know it's been a year today." She added grimly.

John obliged, stumbling from whatever part of hell that had decided to occupy his flat.

Sherlock watched John, agonized by the obvious hallucinations he must have been subject too. Sherlock had only gone to stop by 221B when he spied a half crazed John wielding an empty gun, spinning wildly around, trying to follow some figure on the ceiling's movement, then screaming and throwing himself against the door.

Mycroft knew Moriarty would start his horrible games with John, and Sherlock was too late to protect both his brother and his best friend.

Sherlock contemplated his options for some time until he decided to follow John and Mrs. Hudson to the cemetery. He needed to at the very least keep a diligent watch over John from this point onward.

He had let John be alone for too long, but was only just realizing the effect it had on both of them.


	11. Chapter 11: Flashbacks

He remembered the cursed day, one year ago.

Sherlock had seen it all; he saw it all flash by.

The people who had claimed that one's life passes before their eyes were wrong.

Or had they been right?

When did Sherlock classify his life as beginning?

Did he dare claim that it all started in a lab, with a friendly wink and a fluttering coat?

Because that's where the flashbacks began.

Sherlock's memories twirled and waltz past him, all memories that began from the moment he accepted his new flat mate.

A wink.

A fluttering tailcoat streaming behind his wide gait.

From that moment on, his life changed. It began anew.

Or maybe it had actually begun? And the years beforehand were just preparation for that moment when the wheels of his life were set in motion?

A trial, a teaser for the time to come – all the time he had in the world, left to spend solving murder cases with John.

Or so he had hoped.

Sherlock remembered his arm, extended out, reaching out to his only friend, slowly lowering to his side.

"_Goodbye, John._"

The phone clattered on the rooftop behind him, Sherlock couldn't remember dropping it. Maybe it was thrown.

He heard John screaming from below.

His name.

That was the last thing he heard.

He was not scared for himself; he knew he would be safe. But it was John he was afraid for. John, the bravest man Sherlock had ever met.

Sherlock expected the worst to ensue, after he stepped out into the air. He expected post-traumatic stress disorder, extreme depression, denial, anger, hatred.

He expected John's life to turn to pitch. He saw jet black, horrible, empty pain. Sherlock expected the dark and endless pain to consume John completely.

Sherlock expected the worst, and he stepped out into the air

His arms flew out at his sides, he flailed, suddenly helpless.

He had never felt so alone in his life, so utterly unprotected.

His life. Where had it begun?

This is where the flashbacks began. With John. About John. For John.

Where had John's life began?

Sherlock realized, as the ground shot forward, it had begun when his own had.

He saw his life – John's life – their life – all flash before his eyes.

Then it was over.

John stood at Sherlock's grave, Mrs. Hudson trudged back out of the cemetery, muttering about all the awful things Sherlock had done to her and her property.

He inhaled and exhaled deeply, pausing briefly before trying to swallow, though it was futile as his mouth was dry as sand.

"Uhm." He exhaled, making a slight _mmm_ sound; as if he was trying to push all the things he wished to say back down his throat. John mustered his courage, trying to start fresh.

"ehYou…" He swallowed drily again.

"You told me once…" _Ahem_ – he attempted to clear the throbbing in his throat, which threatened to turn into tears. "That you weren't a hero." He inhaled, trying to clear his mind of their last face to face conversation.

Mrs. Hudson had just been 'shot'. He had corrected Sherlock as he tried to tell John that being alone protects him. Instead John retaliated with '_No, Sherlock, _friends _protect people_'. Sherlock knew at that very moment that John would understand in the future that this is the reasoning for the horrible fall Sherlock was about to take. Sherlock was protecting John. But John bitterly remembered assuming Sherlock was too wrapped up in himself to aid Mrs. Hudson.

The thought of how that backfired on him, how Sherlock was a hero, protecting his friends, gave John the same feeling of the cold, barren, and dark wasteland he became right after Sherlock's death.

John inhaled, and exhaled a long _uhm_ as he recollected his thoughts, focusing on his message to his best friend.

The soldier gulped for air, bracing himself to continue.

"There were times I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this. You were…" John inhaled deeply, trying to pull the rising sob back into his body.

"The best man… ehThe most human… human being…" He struggled for more air through the tears he fought as they started to slip from his eyes. "… That I will ever know."

"And no one," He took a haggard breath "will convince me you told me a lie. And so…" John choked on his tears. "There."

He exhaled shakily as the crows in the background cried out, cawing to each other. Swallowing drily, John began to speak again after collecting himself.

"This is…"

He started, but stopped; deciding now to speak exactly what was on his mind, not the words he had formed in the cab. He touched Sherlock's headstone, wishing instead he could place his hand on the man's tall, boney shoulder.

"I was so alone…" _mmm_ John hummed. "And I owe you so much." He exhaled quickly. Rushing to breathe again, John felt as if his throat was closing around the sob he had held down for so long; he could hardly fill his lungs. Weak and destroyed by confronting all that remained of his friend, John turned to go, but returned quickly, desperately needing to tell his dear companion one last confession.

"Oh and there's just one more thing… One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't…" He inhaled sharply, forcing his lungs to accept the air. "Be…"

John paused, not sure if he was able to finish the sentence without breaking the dam of tears.

"_Dead_" John choked out. He wiped his face silently. His mouth continued, breaking the barrier between his thoughts and speech.

"Would you… just for me… just stop it. Stop this."

John exhaled and inhaled one final time, sniffing his cries back behind his soldier's barrier. He limped back through the cemetery, quivering slightly from the absolute tidal wave of pain he had brought back on himself; barely holding on to the raft of relief his confession had given him.

He called Mrs. Hudson, asking her to catch a cab without him.

John paused, and as he felt every raven's eyes upon him, dropped his cane and staggered back to the grave.

He fell to his knees, shaking in his silence as he cried helplessly. John felt weak and alone, every moment that Sherlock and him shared passed before the inside of his eyelids. He remembered how Sherlock had always protected him, had reached out to John as he had to no other person, not even Mycroft, who most likely was now dying alone in a hospital bed.

Sherlock had been the one to strip the bomb off his body when John was stuck at the swimming pool. Not any of his other friends - only Sherlock would have known to save him. He relived them running through the back alleys together, linked by chain cuffs, holding on to each other for support and to feel each other's presence – to face the danger together.

Together. Together, they had faced everything.

They only had to utter each other's names to know they could rely on one another in any situation.

He shook violently and silently with tears. John remembered how Sherlock would say his name, releasing a small amount of air, a sound of relief but urgency, a sense of being needed and loved.

He could practically hear Sherlock's voice now; hear the pure anguish he would stress in a faint breath of his name – all at the sight of John finally breaking down.

A spot of liquid hit his neck.

"_John_"

He whipped around, lungs deflating and collapsing in on themselves. John froze at the sight of the tall man in the long, dark coat as he swooped down and embraced him. It felt as if every part of his being had been rigidly and deathly stiffened until that very moment.

John could feel the man's familiar warmth as he collapsed in his arms, grappling to grip him as tight as possible; to hold him would be to know he was real.

John clung tight to his back and neck; his fingers intertwined with dark, black loose curls of hair.

"_Sherlock_"

No. It couldn't possibly be. The image of Sherlock's fluttering coat and flailing arms suddenly seared across his mind.

John shoved the man away from him, scrambling, crawling backwards. Further and further he scuttled until his back was against the dark black gravestone. An annoyed raven cawed and took flight from his perch on the grave marker.

"Sh- Sher-" It couldn't be him. Dirt danced lightly onto his trousers, his hair slightly ruffled but more or less the same, his thin frame held off the ground by one bent leg, and his blazing blue irises piercing John, the color contrasting with his slightly red eyes and bone white skin.

A dream. a nightmare, a hallucination. It had to be. The only possible answer could be another episode of his insanity. His extreme delirium followed him out of the nest it was produced in.

This was the final straw for John. He had seen his best friend's memory come alive as he lay in a puddle of his own blood, the mirage telling John he was only a part of the act. He had seen his best friend emerge as a horrible looming monster, only to decompose before John's very eyes. He had seen Sherlock come to life many times, but before he had never been exact, he had never been _Sherlock._

This figure, this was a monster worse than any others. This was Sherlock Holmes. This was a perfect clone of Sherlock's quirks and mannerisms, of his grace and his flaws. This was so perfect, that it was more disturbing than any horror that had emerged from John's mind before.

Seeing his best friend in front of him, not distorted by any unusual and new malicious traits, John knew this was the final straw. There was no other way to be hurt but to see a carbon copy of his Sherlock become subject to some horrible end all over again.

It was never John's own pain that hurt him the most, it was Sherlock's. His subconscious, which had betrayed him time and time again, knew.

John didn't want to think about what was sure to happen. He was done fighting. John accepted Sherlock's hallucination, he broke ties with his inhibition and let himself become on that level, ready to turn to dust and disintegrate if Sherlock's image decided to at any moment.

There was no worse pain than giving in.

He did not speak, and he did not have to. He was waiting patiently for John to become angry. He stared at John for moments, minutes, for what seemed to last an eternity until John's face broke. He had looked petrified, eyes bulging and eyebrows raised; mouth agape in disbelief. Of course, this is what Sherlock anticipated. But his face broke down; he slumped against Sherlock's gravestone, and let his legs slide out.

All the will and strength that John had shown disappeared. The soldier was defeated. The ends of his mouth naturally turned down, his forehead creased, but worst of all his eyes screamed out in agony to anyone who could see.

In John's eyes, there seemed to be an endless sea of pain. It was crushing him, hollowing out his body and mind of everything he enjoyed. The wall of defense that had been built vanished, and all there was left was pain. The pain leaked out from John's eyes, tainting the atmosphere around the two men, suffocating them both.

Wordlessly, Sherlock stood and sat beside John. He did not try to pull John upright, but supported him. Sherlock eased himself so that John could rest his head upon Sherlock's shoulder. John flinched at the touch, but gave in with a great exhale of the air he was holding onto, like it was the last he would ever breathe.

They sat their motionlessly until the moon crept high into the sky. John had closed his eyes, but did not fall asleep for a single second. Any time he spent asleep would be time where he could not consciously recognize the beating of Sherlock's heart. It was a slow, rhythmic beat that fed John some hope – hope that Sherlock wasn't a wild nightmare, hope that Sherlock wasn't a figment of John's insanity, hope that his best friend was sitting beside him.

Around midnight, Sherlock dared to move a few centimeters. John sprung to life, eye flinging open and turning to look at Sherlock before the man could disappear and never return. Sherlock closed and opened his eyes slowly, his deep voice whispered gently while he reassuringly wrapped his arm tightly around John's shoulder,

"Let's go home."


	12. Chapter 12: What Makes a Home

_Chapter Twelve: What Makes a Home_

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's shoulders, trying his best to protect him; to show John that he had been trying to protect him all along by enclosing and supporting him in Sherlock's own body.

John wearily hoped that they could sit down again as he walked with Sherlock, letting the hallucination's feet take the lead. He accepted and became content with the awful truth that he was lost in a horrifically vivid nightmare, confusing what was false with what was real. He was warm, comfortable – long arms preventing a biting cold from reaching his heart, which they covered so naturally.

John let his one hand pinch Sherlock's sleeve, pressing it so tightly that his fingers turned numb. He desperately and silently pleaded to no one in particular that this was actually real; hoping that the harder he pinched the fabric, the more likely that it would lose the hallucinogenic he thought was sown in every stitch.

As the pair crossed the threshold of their flat, Sherlock felt John shuddered lightly at the appearance. After one week from his last visit, the place had taken on a new character.

Not much had actually physically changed besides overturned furniture – which Sherlock assumed was a product of John's torture by Moriarty.

Characteristically, the flat had the potential to be a set for a horror film. The total atmosphere was grim, chilling, having the same effect on the resident as a dark bedroom had on a small child. The long shadows and overall darkness made familiar objects unfamiliar and suspicious, the darkness creeping and spidering out of the corners towards you, tickling disturbingly up your legs and your back. The walls appeared to loom up higher than usual, leaning inward as they stretched up.

Sherlock led John inwards, and suddenly aware of how thin and wispy John felt as he pinched Sherlock's coat, he led him to sit down on the couch.

Again, they were left without words. Not even unspoken thoughts escaped either man; the area around their bodies should have been filled with silent screams for each other, but it was absolutely desolate. John was purposely voiding his mind of potentially vivid and raw emotions, and Sherlock the very same. This practice was natural for Sherlock, it was something he did on a regular basis, but for John it was posed a bit of a challenge.

Sherlock moved his head on his neck so that he could see John. His friend was trying to focus on Sherlock's face, but his exhaustion left him partially unable to sustain the strong attentiveness. Instead, his eyes tiredly resorted to an unknown space, past Sherlock's depth but never at an exact object. Sherlock allowed himself to feel just long enough to understand the level of exhaustion that had been accumulating in John over the past year.

"Please, go to sleep" Sherlock said gently. John's heavy eyelids drooped down; he nearly fell asleep on the spot.

"No. I won't let you disappear… I can't let you; I won't know what to do" Sherlock saw pain, desperation, a plea for help all flit across John's face as he spoke. His words were simple, stern, raw with truth, but his face spoke poetically of all the words his mouth couldn't say. These unspoken words drilled right into Sherlock's chest, crushing his heart, making it ache with empathy.

Sherlock pulled John up, grasped his shoulders and slowly steered him into his bedroom with a nurturing, caring push. He sat John upon his bed, and he himself sat on the wooden floor, right beneath where John would soon lie. John hardly resisted Sherlock's lead; it was almost like the times where Sherlock would propose an absurd experiment and John would object, but always followed along (though sometimes trudging).

"I'm not leaving, don't worry." Sherlock murmured.

Exhaustedly, John eased down onto his mattress, pulling the sheets up as he closed his eyes with an elongated sigh. It wasn't long before Sherlock could faintly hear the familiar sound of air being inhaled through John's nose, vibrating his nostrils slightly as it passed his sinuses, releasing a light snoring sound.

John's hand had found a tuft of Sherlock's hair and loosely held it. Sherlock allowed his eyes to close for a moment and the corners of his mouth to gently tug towards his ears. John was safe, he was safe, Mycroft should recover completely any day, and Irene had safely hidden herself somewhere in the city.

To assure himself of this, he quickly texted Irene a short and cynical message:

"_Don't be an idiot and hide yourself well. With John, will not be leaving – SH"_

Sherlock didn't text Mycroft, was there any need? He knew he had prescribed the correct medication and dosage, which was enough of a good deed to make it morally ok for Sherlock not to ever have to hear from or see his brother again. He only hoped Mycroft shared his sense of morality.

With his mind momentarily at ease, Sherlock began to let his thoughts wander the effects his fake-death had on John and himself.

From assimilating and accommodating himself to Sherlock and his lifestyle, John had replaced his former life of avoiding Harriet, the war, and depression. Only avoiding Harry remained when he accepted the changes life in 221B was imposing on him. But, when Sherlock left, all that he had relied on for stability vanished as well. Without it, John was left to fend for himself.

He was reduced back to what was pure muscle memory – his life as a soldier. After being pulled away from Sherlock's body, John was left on the battlefield of coping with the aftermath of the death of a loved one as well as, what John believed (though Sherlock was sure it wasn't true at the time), dealing with Moriarty on his own. Facing this, more the loss of Sherlock than the prospect of having to deter Moriarty, gave John the exact feeling of being on the front lines in battle.

But this battle, he was alone.

After the funeral, which John faced bravely and with a soldier's stoic expression, he was then reduced to a fighter. John took on the responsibility of being a support for everyone around him to the best of his ability. He fought. John fought the pain, the desolation, the depression; he fought his own mind solely for the sake of his friends. Though they did anyway, John could not bear the thought that Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade would worry about him instead of care for themselves. John was crippled – literally and figuratively – but he still fought to be strong. No one expected him to, no one wanted him to, but he did not do it for himself. Easily he could have slipped back into not caring for anyone at all, but he chose to care for others to his best ability.

John clung to the fight. He did not quit his job and rely only on his pension from the army. He tried to go back to a normal life; he made it almost through the entire year this way. He did not return to his and Sherlock's flat to avoid any stimulation to depression. But when all the other supports to his sanity began to crumble, he did as well. Mycroft was the essential pivotal point in the constant battle John was in.

Sherlock silently cursed Moriarty, knowing that the consulting criminal knew just how to make John falter in his constant and steady fight. Moriarty's guerilla warfare tactic of using John's therapist to threaten him had been a foolish move, but only someone who knew John as well as Sherlock could understand the degree of how much he cherished the lives of others over his own, though the incident at the pool was a definite telltale sign.

Moriarty hit John's Achilles heel by targeting Mycroft, though. John may hate him as much as Sherlock, but he couldn't let a man that had Sherlock's interests at heart die, even if those interests had been expressed in twisted and unusual ways.

John then was reduced to the state of clinging to his will to fight. He was being tortured by Moriarty, who took everything John went to as safety and turned it against him, leaving John hopeless and more alone than he had ever been in his life.

This much Sherlock could assume; by driving John back to Baker Street and making the hallucinations happen there and there alone, Sherlock presumed that Moriarty was hoping reduce John to absolute defeat; to drive John insane enough by taking away all that he felt safety in that Sherlock would rush in to help or John would take his own life.

It worked, but only partially. Sherlock guessed that Moriarty hadn't expected Mrs. Hudson to interfere and for both to leave the premises, but probably anticipated it.

Moriarty's drugs had done what he wanted, because John did break down, and Sherlock did swoop in. John had been tortured and ripped apart to his very core. The final stage in what Sherlock's absence had reduced John to being as helpless as a child.

Sherlock was not nurturing. He was not kind, caring, or sentimental in the very least. Yet when he saw John completely broken and defeated, sobbing at his grave, Sherlock cared.

As helpless as a child, scarred for life after abuse, but still searching for hope. Almost the same concept of how he searched for adventure even in the deepest and darkest days of his post-war depression.

How John could even depend on Sherlock as he was doing now, after all Sherlock had done to him, he had no idea.

Sherlock's phone buzzed against the wood floor of John's room, causing him to whimper in his sleep and move closer to the end of the bed Sherlock sat against, holding the piece of his hair tightly. _He really is like an abused child_. No doubt that his nightmares were now loosely stitched with small horrors because of even the smallest noise.

It was a text from Mycroft. Sherlock scowled, contemplating ignoring it, but knowing if he did, there would be many more texts in retaliation.

"_Glad to see you took my advice and are back with John. Mummy would be pleased you're behaving so well. – MH"_

A quick, two-word reply should suffice, Sherlock decided.

"_Piss off. – SH"_

John woke with a start, eyes flying open, expecting to see some sort of demon or monster in front of him. He realized with surprise that he was in his room, looking to the side to see his left hand loosely holding onto a strand of Sherlock's hair. Slightly embarrassed, he let go and propped himself up as Sherlock took his release as an opportunity to swivel around and jump to his feet.

John wanted to speak, but couldn't find the words which would fit. He wanted to ask _'You're still here?'_ but the answer was fairly obvious. The concept of why he was still there was puzzling, but blatantly asking why was too rude and brash, and John hardly cared why at this point, he was only thankful that Sherlock had stayed by his side.

Evidently, this showed on John's face. Sherlock gave a sympathetic quirk of his lip, odd but not completely out of character, and asked John quietly,

"You alright?"

How was he supposed to respond? He wasn't fine, but he was relieved that Sherlock hadn't disappeared or turned into a murderous hallucination. Was there an expression for that?

Again, Sherlock understood these thoughts by reading the lines on John's face.

"I'll make some tea."

John still didn't speak, but hummed an '_mmmm'_ in appreciation. He took this opportunity to jump in the shower and privately collect his thoughts. The two separated.

Sherlock leaned against the kitchen counter, the two cups of tea ready when John emerged, hair wet but looking much more composed and refreshed. Sherlock handed him his cup, John eagerly taking a sip until his face twisted in revulsion.

"What _is _this?"

"Just added a little something for your detox."

John raised an eyebrow suspiciously, but didn't argue. He settled himself across from Sherlock, leaning on the table and steading himself before asking the inevitable.

"How?"

He didn't have to elaborate; Sherlock knew what John was asking. Taking a deep breath, he prepared for a long and complicated explanation.

Just then, Sherlock identified Mrs. Hudson's soft, uneven footsteps coming up the stairs as she crooned:

"John? Deary, I'm just coming to check on you, I didn't see you come in yesterday!"

Sherlock swore under his breath, he could see John's pulse spike in his neck, his nerves worse than Sherlock's for this encounter.

She rounded the corner, entering the flat then the kitchen, one hand on her bad hip.

Her face illuminated at the sight of Sherlock.

"Sheerrrloocckk ohhh! You've finally stopped for a visit." Her eyes switched to John. "John! Oh, Sherlock, you must be home to stay! We must have a little party! Did you tell Molly you're back? She hasn't seen you since you gave her that nasty shock at the morgue a few weeks ago."

John's jaw dropped. His voice was small, hurt, pained.

"They knew?"

"They had to… I can explain…"

"You told Molly but you couldn't tell me?" His voice grew stronger, anger rising with his volume.

"Well Molly helped me in th-"

John's fist caught Sherlock's cheekbone the very instant his tea cup shattered on the ground.

"ARE. YOU. BLOODY. KIDDING ME?"

Sherlock smacked his head on the cabinet above, he propped himself up by his elbow as his feet had slipped out from under him.

"John – just let me explain."

John breathed heavily, clenching and unclenching his fists at his side but not making another move.

Sherlock swung his lean frame upright again, one hand holding the split skin over his cheekbone, regaining his usual posture.

Mrs. Hudson sighed, puttering past the seething and short man and the bleeding and tall one.

"I'll get the ice…" She huffed.


	13. Chapter 13: Normal Behavior

Chapter 13

Sherlock assessed John's state. Specifically, he searched John's face for any signs that Sherlock would receive another fist to his cheek, perhaps his nose. Thankfully, John had composed himself and was even looking better after splitting Sherlock's cheek.

Sherlock grabbed John's arm without warning.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?"

He proceeded to take John's shirt off around his shoulder, which revealed small, needle sized scabs and surrounding bruises. John continued to protest while Sherlock reached in the nearest cabinet and took out a butterfly needle and vile, and without asking or even looking at John's face, Sherlock filled it with his friend's blood.

"SHERLOCK" John exclaimed. The dead-man-walking paused in his frenzied dance around the kitchen to search John's eyes, realizing just then that he probably should have asked permission.

"It's just an experiment, John."

"Well you can't just rip off someone's shirt and draw their blood!"

At this, Sherlock stopped in the middle of a violent pivot, cocking his head to the side as if the concept of normal manners and behavior was completely alien to him. The time he and John spent apart caused him to revert back to his usual, less-conscientious ways.

"Not good?" He asked almost childishly.

"Bit not good, yeah."

Sherlock's lower lip drew outwards slightly as he considered "normal" manners, then realizing with a small grin how John was behaving as he normally would before their separation. With a great deal of noise, Sherlock resumed blustering about the kitchen, searching for his equipment.

"It's all gone." John said as he rubbed his eyes.

"Yes, I'm well aware of that." Sherlock retorted. "Grab your coat, John; we're going to Bart's"

Long fingers suddenly grasped Molly Hooper's shoulders and swung her 180 degrees, flinging a test tube that was in her hand across the room and shattering it on the wall.

She hardly had time to gasp before Sherlock demanded to know where his equipment was stored.

John watched a scene play out before him, it was surreal, to see the one man he had never thought he would see again re-enter his life and resume his place as if nothing had happened. To everything around him, John felt numb. He only felt a brief flash of anger when he was told that not only did Mrs. Hudson know Sherlock was actually alive, but Molly as well. The thought now had little effect over him, but did make his curiosity resurface. John felt he had a right to know what had happened on the roof of Saint Bart's.

Sherlock seemed to have read his mind perfectly. "You want to know how."

"Yes" John replied, finding himself now in the very room where he met the great detective, standing awkwardly by the door as Sherlock observed a slide under a microscope, just as they were on their first meeting. This time, though, Sherlock did not condescendingly speak to John, did not show off with complex deductions, and was not nearly as arrogant. This time Sherlock swung his body around to face John, kindly gesturing to a nearby stool, indicating the story would be a lengthy one.

As John settled across from Sherlock, he began to explain.

"I knew Moriarty would try and kill me from the day he let us get away. I knew, just as last time, that he would use you against me, as well as Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. There was no question about it, except for how and when. Last time we were here together I told Moriarty to meet me on the roof, and I had one of my connections through the homeless shelter contact you about Mrs. Hudson.

"Molly saw through me, she could tell that I was about to do something grave. I let her help; we set up a cadaver to look just like me in identical clothing, just in case. We both figured I would most likely be jumping from the roof, so I had her waiting below with the cadaver to put it in place.

"When Moriarty and I met on the roof, he did just as I expected. He had you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade all targeted if I didn't kill myself. He's always dramatic, Moriarty, and that was his fault. He shot himself in the head so that I would be the only one left with the computer code-"

"Wait, what code?"

"The code, John," Sherlock said impatiently. "The code Moriarty made everyone believe – even Mycroft – would give access to every computer database in Great Britain. He told me it was fake, but not until I was already on the roof. His hired assassins believed that only Moriarty and I knew the code, so when Moriarty shot himself there was just me. If I walked off that roof, you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade would have instantly shot dead. But if I killed myself…" Sherlock's lip twisted in amusement "then there would be no one to try and force the code out of.

"When you came back after you realized Mrs. Hudson was fine, I had you stop and stand. I wouldn't let you move around the building you were standing in front of so that you were in view of Bart's, but you could see the roof – just not the ground. You also couldn't see that there was a truck with the boot filled with bags of padding and other soft cushioning. I had one of my friends from the homeless shelter driving that red truck right underneath the building," Sherlock paused and searched John's eyes, which swam with painful memories "…I jumped.

"There had been a chalked out area for the truck to pull in front of, and while I was being driven away Molly and a few more friends from the homeless network put out the body, right where I would have landed, with blood on the face. I don't know if you recall, but you were knocked over by a biker to give Molly more time to place the body. Then the network gathered round the body, blocking it from your view until you shoved through."

The rest of the scene went unsaid between John and Sherlock. John grabbed Sherlock's wrist, trying to find a pulse but to no avail. All of John's strength seemed to be taken from him and the surrounding people helped support him as he weakly fell. The body was taken away, but the pain was left for only John to bear.

Time elapsed between the pair as a tidal wave of memories crashed over John.

"John" Sherlock spoke. The man looked up, the fog of pain clearing from his eyes by his friends beckoning.

"I'm sorry."


End file.
